


The art of letting go

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Discussion of Abortion, Does it count if they both were too drunk to remember?, Emotional Infidelity, John Watson is somehow even worse at feelings, John and Mary are married though, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Mycroft is a good brother, Parental Lestrade, Past Infidelity, Pining, Self-Worth Issues, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Trans Character, Unplanned Pregnancy, a lot of that, but Mary isn't pregnant, mentions of drug use, of the "blink and you miss it" kind, post tsot, probably, some slight mystrade, why won't they talk to each other?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Sherlock has convinced himself that if he can't remember what happened on the stag night, then it didn't happen.New...developmentshave led him to reconsider this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really should stop doing this to myself… but lately I have far too much inspiration for far too many stories even if I mostly don’t know how to end them! :P  
> Anyway… here’s my newest idea. I like it very much, actually, even if it makes me a bit nervous writing a trans character. I try to do my research to the best of my ability, but I’m always worried I might write something horribly offensive, so if that happened to be the case, please let me know! I have written something slightly similar before (or that included Mpreg at least) but well… I still worry.   
> Some little details about the story setting. It’s supposed to be set after TSoT, so John and Mary are married, but the later isn’t pregnant. I ran with the idea that _ something _ did happen between John and Sherlock during the stag night, but neither actually remembers most of it so they both have convinced themselves it was just a crazy dream. Except it wasn’t, obviously. I’m going to play fast and loose with canon, so while the basic plot of HLV will remain, there are a few (key) changes. I don’t particularly care for Mary for good or bad, so I usually change my characterisation of her in all my works, even if I tend more towards making her  _ not nice _ . That will not be the case here though, even if I do intend to have John and Sherlock end up together.  
> So, without further ado, I hope you’ll like it!
> 
>  
> 
>  

Sherlock keeps his eyes stubbornly closed, refusing to acknowledge the other person in the room. It’s easier to continue pretending he’s asleep, if only because he’s in no mood to face any recriminations.

There’s a light knock on the door and he can hear the doctor talking in hushed whispers with his brother. Sherlock risks a glance in their direction; his brother looks deadly tired, but resigned and just nods along whatever the doctor is saying, at least until the man hands him Sherlock’s file and points at something.

Mycroft pales considerably, his lips drawn into a tight line and he nods one last time before the doctor steps out once more. Sherlock closes his eyes, willing himself to sleep. He’s really in no mood to listen to his brother’s sermon; not now at least.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, taking a seat next to the bed once more but the younger man continues feigning sleep. “Sherlock, please,” his brother pleads and something in his tone makes him relent, opening his eyes and turning to face Mycroft. He looks even more tired now and simply pases Sherlock his medical file, eyes infinately sad.

Sherlock’s eyes sweep over the chart. Everything seems quite normal, or as normal as it does when he overdoses. This isn’t his first time certainly and so he knows more or less what to expect, both in medical terms and in relation with his brother’s reactions.

He almost hands the chart back, not knowing what he’s supposed to be seeing when he notices something odd. A blood test is among the regular tests for people who have overdosed, if only to check what type of toxins are in their bloodstream. This however-

 **Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (hCG)** ……... **28090 mIU/ml**

That can’t be.

He’s not aware of the chart being taken away from him, his eyes fixed on some spot in the far wall. He desperately tries to remember the last time he bleed and keeps coming up blank. Not that it has ever mattered; he’s never been very regular with his periods and considering the way he abuses his body ( _it’s just transport after all_ ) his doctor has always said it’s to be expected.

But this can’t be! He hasn’t had sex in _years;_ he can’t even remember _when_ was the last time. So this is completely impossible; there must be something wrong with the test!

His heart constricts painfully in his chest as he shoves a half formed memory back into its neat box in the depths of his Mind Palace. He has (mostly) convinced himself that _that_ never happened (much like John himself probably has too); so now is not the time to be reconsidering his version!

Except this new… development seems to suggest that it _did_ happen.

He turns to his brother, who is looking at him intently. He doesn’t think either of them ever actually thought this was something that _could_ happen, not even back in Sherlock’s darkest days when he spend most of his time being high and hanging with other drug addicts like himself.

“What-” Sherlock begins, interrupting himself by biting on his lip. He feels like a child that has done something _wrong_ and now has to come to his father to beg for help to _fix it._ “What do you think I should do?”

Mycroft sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I think we should schedule an abortion and forget all about this…” he trails off, waving a hand vaguely. “It’d be the sensible, _reasonable,_ probably honorable thing to do.”

Sherlock nods. His brother is right, of course. After all John is married now and it wouldn’t be fair- “That’s not what you want to do,” Mycroft says, interrupting his thoughts and the younger man has to hold back a sob as he shakes his head furiously. “Oh, Sherlock,” his brother murmurs, coming to sit on the bed next to him, gathering him in his arms. “It’s alright. It’s fine, I promise, we’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock hides his face in his brother’s chest, crying silently. He feels awful, as he usually does after an overdose, his body rebelling at his mean treatment of it, but now there’s _sentiment_ being added into the mix and that’s… that’s not good at all.

Oh god, what has he gotten himself into?

 

* * *

 

Sherlock realized he was really a boy when he was six.

After the initial revelation and subsequent announcement of his discovery to his family, he hadn’t thought much of the matter ever again. His body was just transport, so it didn’t matter much how it look. Later, when puberty came, he had thought these new _developments_ were annoying, but not something worth thinking about. Mycroft proposed some surgeries when he was 18 and so old enough to have them done without their parents permission, but Sherlock hadn’t thought them necessary. It seemed silly to him how much importance people put into external characteristics.

He was a man and that was it.

He had small breasts anyway and his periods were irregular enough for him to simply ignore the fact his body didn’t match _society's expectations_ of what a man’s body was. Sex was… well, not something he was particularly interested to begin with and something he was most definitely not interested when he realized most of his partners reacted badly at his body not matching his identity. He had considered the surgeries briefly, but promptly decided it was too much of a hassle to go through just for other people’s sakes.

When it came to children, he had always assumed he wouldn’t have any. He had no delusions he would make a decent father, nor that he would be able to retain a partner long enough to _conceive_ a child, let alone _raise_ it. What he wanted or didn’t want wasn’t important; it was of no use daydreaming about things he _couldn’t_ have, even if he was biologically capable of it.

Now though-

He knows the _sensible_ thing to do would be getting an abortion. His lifestyle is not really conducive to raising a child and he’s technically in the middle of a case; a blackmail case no less. It’s simply the worst time to be revealing parts of himself very few people know, not to mention-

He sighs. The press will love the scandal; he can already see the headlines: _who’s Sherlock Holmes’ baby’s father?_ And the speculation… god, that would be hell. There are only 3 men that spend any significant time with him and one is related to him, the other technically _works_ with him and John-

John is married.

He huffs. Now the press would _love_ that. For years they speculated about the nature of their relationship, now they would have “proof” that they were lovers all along. Only that’s not what happened, not at all, but perhaps it’s better than the truth. It certainly sounds less pathetic than _we drunk a little too much on the stag night and I might have finally gathered the courage to kiss John._

God, he’s an idiot.

The worst part is that he doesn’t even _remember_ the damn thing. He recalls coming home entirely too drunk, laughing like a maniac at whatever silly thing John said. He sat at his usual chair, still laughing and then John had almost fell over, grabbing Sherlock’s knee to rebalance himself and then-

The rest is a blurr. How typical that the one time he gets to kiss John Watson, his brain is too intoxicated to remember despite the fact he usually remembers _everything_ (including those things he’d rather forget).

Although apparently _kissing_ is not all they did. He had woken up naked in his bed, his thighs sticky, a bloody love bite on his hipbone. But he had discarded the evidence; he had told himself that if he didn’t remember, _it hadn’t happened_ and so he had sent John away, reminding him to be in time for the wedding rehearsal while he had carefully put all his scattered memories in neat boxes and shoved them to the back of his Mind Palace.

He hadn’t thought about repercussions. It never occured him John could have left him with something other than a hazy memory of precious kisses and sweet words: now there’s _something_ growing inside him and he has no idea what to do about it.

He knows what he _should_ do. But as Mycroft said, that’s not what he _wants_ to do.

The thing is that he has lost John forever. His supposedly best friend hasn’t even called him in two months and their only contact was through blog messages nearly 6 weeks ago. He thinks that’s evidence enough that _he is alone now_ and so a baby…

A little piece of John that wouldn’t left him. Or at least not for the following 16 years or so.

He huffs. It’s an horrid, _selfish_ thought. And yet, the sentiment rings true. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing either; don’t people have children precisely because they love their partners and want something that it’s a little bit of them both? This child is his and _John’s_ and no one, certainly not Mary, with her _normalcy_ and _domesticity_ , can take that away from him.

Mind made up, he settles to think about what he’s going to do now.

He has much to plan after all.

 

* * *

 

“Christ,” Lestrade whispers, looking more devastated than Sherlock himself feels now and he wonders why is that. “Are you… umm… you’re keeping it then?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’ve just said that.”

Lestrade exchanges a concerned glance with his brother and Sherlock narrows his eyes, not liking his expression one bit. “And are you… what about John?”

“What about him?”

A sigh. “Are you telling him?”

Sherlock scoffs, “why would I do that?”

“Sherlock-”

“He’s married now,” he interrupts sharply, not wanting to listen to Lestrade’s reasonings that will make him feel guilty no doubt. “It’s not- it would be unfair on him and Mary. He chose her and I don’t- it wouldn’t be fair,” he finishes lamely, staring at his hands resting on his lap.

“He would want to know,” Lestrade insists gently, placing a hand on his shoulder in silent support. “I know it sounds awful and unfair, but maybe he’ll-”

“I don’t want him coming back just because I’m pregnant,” Sherlock interrupts once more, looking up darkly. He knows John would come back to him if he knew he’s expecting a child, but-

The thing is Sherlock wanted John to choose him. Just him. Not their child.

Lestrade sighs once again, evidently not liking his decision, but willing to support it. “Alright then. What now?”

“I’ve already scheduled an appointment with Dr. Wales,” Mycroft says calmly and Sherlock makes a face. He does like his doctor; she’s nice and understanding and not once has she made him feel self conscious or treat him badly, but-

“You realize of course you’re going to need to take better care of yourself,” Lestrade adds and Sherlock turns to glare at him. “I mean it, Sherlock. Three meals a day, decent sleep and definitely no more drugs. You should probably quit smoking too.”

Sherlock crosses his arms in front of his chest, annoyed. He has already thought of that, of course. He doesn’t particularly care about _his transport_ but he’s not going to do anything that could compromise his child’s future health.

“Going through withdrawal is going to be particularly… difficult,” Mycroft points out, earning himself a glare from the younger Holmes, because _of course he knows that._ “It’s a miracle your last overdose didn’t have… dramatic consequences.”

Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes. He thinks the other men are just trying to help, but their comments are not being helpful at all. He knows all this already but he knows there’s really no other choice. He shouldn’t be doing drugs anyway, hadn’t Mycroft said as much?

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a while,” he says, leaning back on the small uncomfortable hospital bed. “I have much to think about.”

His companions share a look and nod, although they seem reluctant to leave him alone. Not completely unexpected, considering he has done some pretty foolish things in the past right after overdosing, but they seem to believe he’s not going to do anything that might put his baby in danger.

Sherlock listens to the door close, eyes closed. He has been feeling quite despondent lately and the drugs seemed the easiest solution to the pain of his broken heart, if only because they helped him ignore the world at large. He had tried to resist, telling himself over and over he was better than that, but had ultimately succumbed to his old vice. Naturally he hadn’t been planning on overdosing, but he had made a slight miscalculation and-

In a way, he’s thankful he did, because otherwise he might not have realized he was pregnant and if he continued taking drugs he would eventually either lose the baby or done some irreparable damage to it. At least now he knows he has a reason not to fall into his self destructive tendencies.

A reason to smile too, he supposes. He places a hand over his still flat stomach and daydreams about the future.

And if said future happens to include his child’s other father-

Well, nobody needs to know about that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I love writing unplanned pregnancies. I don’t know why, I just do. This is likely to be angsty and sad, but I promise it’ll work out in the end (I actually have most of the ending chapter half written, but it might change as I write because that happens to me  _ a lot_).  
> The medical facts… well, I did my research, but I ended up pretty confused, so if something doesn’t work like that, please feel free to point it out. And if there’s anything bothering you or you have any particular concerns, let me know too!  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you thought!  
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m quite inspired for this story and I’m really liking how are things working out so… well. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

“So, what do you think of our little conundrum?”

Mycroft takes a long drag of his cigarette, mulling over his answer. “I honestly believe the sensible solution would be to get an abortion.” Lestrade nods regretfully, looking as tired as Mycroft feels. “But I understand my brother’s reasons to keep it.”

The Inspector sighs, running his fingers through his short hair. “And do you- do you think not telling John is wise?”

Mycroft considers his answer, toying with his cigarette. “I think my brother fools himself if he believes Dr. Watson will never find out. He might be inclined to ignore the truth, however,” he adds thoughtfully. “That would make things easier for both of them, actually.”

The other man nods, biting his lip gently. Mycroft averts his gaze, chiding himself for getting distracted by something so ridiculous. “Mrs. Watson on the other hand… She’s a clever woman. It’s a little harder to predict what she’ll do when she finds out. I’ve been lead to believe infidelities are… _ difficult  _ to deal with.”

Lestrade rubs a hand over his face, chuckling mirthlessly. “I’d know about that,” he says self deprecatingly and Mycroft ignores the brief urge to  _ say something  _ to comfort him. “Yeah, Mary is likely not to take it well. But if both John and Sherlock are going to pretend nothing happened… she might be inclined to pretend too. It’s certainly easier.”

Mycroft nods. He can not honestly predict Mrs. Watson’s reaction and he doesn’t particularly care to. He suspects it won’t be pretty, but hopefully it can be avoided, for a little while at the very least. It’s certainly not something his little brother can deal with right now.

“He’s going to need to lie low for a little while,” he says, throwing down his cigarette and stepping on it. “No difficult cases and certainly not chasing after dangerous suspects.” Lestrade scoffs and Mycroft smirks. “He’s not going to like it. But there’s really no other choice.”

The other man nods, glancing at his watch. “I need to go now, but keep me informed, alright?”

Mycroft nods and watches as the other man leaves, thinking they’re all badly equipped to deal with this new situation.

But since they’re all Sherlock has right now, they’ll have to make do.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s announcement he was really a boy on his sixth birthday had come as a surprise to the whole family. Mycroft doesn’t remember what exactly he thought when his brother made his announcement, but he recalls quite clearly his first thought afterwards: he had been terribly concerned about what Mummy and Dad would say.

Thankfully, neither of their parents had said a word, seemingly too taken aback by their child’s statement. Sherlock had turned around and promptly left the room before any of them had any time to think anything, let alone  _ say  _ anything. Mycroft remembers thinking that was probably for the best.

His parents had turned to him then, as if expecting him to  _ fix it  _ somehow, even if he wasn’t quite sure what needed to be fixed. He didn’t understand much of what his brother was feeling, but he hadn’t seen anything inherently wrong with it.

Still, he figured the least he could do was try to understand. He had been Sherlock’s only confident practically since the younger one had learned to talk and so he found it easy to question him about his odd statement. Even after all these years he can’t honestly say he truly understands, but he has supported his brother every step of the way and has tried to educate himself on the subject as much as possible.

His parents on the other hand- well, they didn’t react  _ badly,  _ per se. After their initial astonishment and Mycroft’s  _ failure  _ to set his sister (brother) straight, they had simply ignored the subject, avoiding using any pronouns at all and always calling Sherlock his younger  _ sibling. _

It wasn’t ideal, he doesn’t think, but it worked for them. If nothing else, the Holmes are notoriously good at ignoring anything that has to do with  _ sentiment.  _

He wonders how many people outside their family knows of Sherlock’s situation. Inspector Lestrade had found out after the first overdose, since he was the one who had rushed Sherlock into the hospital. Dr. Watson had probably found out when he was attempting to patch his brother up after he had done something foolish; impossible to miss that there were certain body parts that didn’t quite match Sherlock’s identity. But who else? Mrs. Hudson, perhaps? Sherlock is fond of her, but did he trust her enough? What about the shy girl from the morgue, Molly Hooper? Sherlock had trusted her to help him fake his death, but did he trust her with _ this _ ? As far as he knows his brother isn’t exactly… secretive about this, but he doesn’t like bringing up the subject, always somewhat fearful of people’s reaction. He might think his body is just transport and therefore any particulars about it are unimportant, but he knows other people might think differently.

“So, who would you like to tell?” he questions gently as he watches Sherlock taking seat on his usual chair by the fire. His brother looks a little lost in his thoughts, eyes sweeping around the room, examining everything.

“Baby proofing the flat is going to be a nightmare,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning back on his seat. “And I’m going to need to buy baby stuff. They need a lot of things, do they not?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, telling himself he needs to give his brother time and space to deal with things in his own terms. “I can handle that, if you wish. You may go to have tea with Mrs. Hudson and it’ll be done by the time you come home.”

“Back.”

“Pardon?”

Sherlock offers him a sardonic smile. “When I come back, not home. This isn’t a  _ home _ ,” he sneers, scrunching his nose in displeasure. “Not anymore,” he adds after a beat, gaze soft, staring at John’s empty chair.

Mycroft closes his eyes, moving closer to his brother, wanting to do  _ something,  _ but not sure what. “It’ll be one again, soon enough,” he says, tentatively placing a hand over the younger man’s shoulder. “Children are good for that, I’ve been told.”

Sherlock’s smile is still sad, but hopeful as he places a hand over his stomach and rubs it absentmindedly. “I think I’d like to do the shopping myself,” he says thoughtfully. “It seems like the sort of thing one shouldn’t outsource.” He looks up, patting the hand on his shoulder. “Your minions can handle the baby proofing though. That sounds  _ dull. _ ”

Mycroft rolls his eyes dramatically. “As you wish.”

He eyes John’s chair doubtfully. He knows it might be a good idea to talk to his brother about what he’s currently feeling, but  _ sentiment  _ has never been his area. Besides, he doubts there’s anything he can say that will make the situation somehow more bearable. He understands why Sherlock would like to keep the child, but he has no doubt it’s going to be difficult and it’s very likely it’ll lead to nothing but further heartbreak.

Although maybe-

“You were right, you know?” Sherlock says suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts. “I did get too involved. And now I’ll have to pay the consequences of my mistake.”

Mycroft bites his lip, not sure of how to answer that. “You were right too,” he replies slowly, carefully measuring his words. “ _ I am lonely.  _ At least- at least you won’t have that problem now.” It pains him to say such words aloud; it’s something he doesn’t like admitting even to himself and yet-

“The couch is bigger,” Sherlock announces and stands up, dropping himself down on the couch a second later. Mycroft stares at him, uncomprehending and the younger one rolls his eyes dramatically, patting the space next to him. When Mycroft simply continues staring, he huffs in annoyance. “We’re not alone, brother dear.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. It’s been years since Sherlock has actually trusted him, years since he felt he had his brother’s love. He always tried to do his best, but he still failed him and he never thought-

He takes a seat next to Sherlock and wraps his arms around him hesitantly. His brother rolls his eyes, wrapping his own arms around him and curling against him, hiding his face in his chest. 

He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, thinking once more they have some very difficult months ahead from them.

But he’ll be here for his brother, no matter what.

* * *

 

“I think Mrs. Hudson needs to know,” Sherlock says much later, now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling while Mycroft attempts to prepare something edible. “It’ll be a little hard to miss that I’m suddenly sporting a baby bump, but even if I managed that, it’ll be impossible to ignore the crying infant in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock had been a very quiet baby. Mycroft remembers waking up several times in the night and going to check he was still breathing, worried by what he feared was excessive silence. “It seems wise. You’ll also need someone to babysit when you go on cases.”

His brother hums. “True enough. Letting Molly know might be wise too, for similar reasons. Lestrade already knows, although it’ll be hard for him to babysit considering half of the cases come from him. Then again he’d be more useful babysitting since he only slows me down, so…”

He trails off and Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You should be thankful for the Yard’s _ ineptitude _ . What would you be doing otherwise?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Are those eggs ready? I’m starving.”

Mycroft makes a face, far from pleased with the result of his cooking attempt. “Perhaps we should inform Mrs. Hudson of your state right now. Then she’ll might take pity off you and make you something to eat.”

His brother has come to stand behind him, inspecting the half cooked food with distaste. “I shall do that right away. That looks like something not even a starving dog would eat.” He turns around sharply, heading for the stairs.

“Sherlock, wait,” Mycroft says and his brother turns, one eyebrow raised. “Are you- should I tell Mummy?”

Sherlock seems to consider this for a long while, eyes lost. Mycroft waits patiently, chewing on his lip gently. “Perhaps it’d be wise to wait. She’ll be delighted, no doubt but…” He shrugs non committedly, exiting the flat a second later without looking back.

Mycroft sighs.

Difficult times ahead from them, indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?   
> It’s a little shorter than the previous one but well… I really wanted to write Mycroft’s POV. We’ll be getting John’s, I promise, but not yet. Next chapter actually runs from Mary’s POV, which I can tell you right now is more than a bit weird, but I’m really liking how it’s coming along so there should be an update ready soonish ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I particularly enjoyed working on this one, even if… well, it’s complicated. You’ll see.  
> As I’ve said before, I generally don’t care much for Mary, but there’s something I’ve been wanting to do since the mess of T6T and well… this happened. I’ll explain a bit more on the ending note ;)  
> In the meantime, enjoy!

John is staring outside the window, watching the city pass. He’s sulking, no doubt, although Mary can’t really see his face. She holds back a frustrated huff and glances at her watch. There’s not a lot of traffic, so with any luck they should be in Baker Street in fifteen minutes or so. Which is good, of course, because she doesn’t think she can stand this tension between her and her husband any longer.

She risks another glance in John’s direction. He’s still not looking at her, but the closer they get to their destination, the more relaxed his stance becomes. She closes her eyes, telling herself for the millionth time it’s for the best. After all, she was the one who proposed the trip, so she shouldn’t get upset it seems to be having the expected result.

Things hadn’t gone that well during their honeymoon and they just seemed to get worse once they make it back to their new house. John is melancholic and distant, although she doubts he notices. He certainly doesn’t mean to behave so coldly towards her, she’s certain of that, but subconsciously-

She sighs. Sometimes she wonders if calling the wedding off wouldn’t have been wiser. It would have hurt, she thinks, but this constant tension between them hurts worst. John doesn’t mean to, she knows he doesn’t, but it’s inevitable. He misses his old life (and everyone involved in it) but he won’t admit it even to himself and so he tries to act as if their new life is wonderful and perfect and everything he could ever want.

But she knows better.

And so she had thought a quick visit to Baker Street might do the trick. God knows why, but her husband has been avoiding contacting Sherlock ever since they married and that has made him miserable in turn, even if he doesn’t realize it. Sherlock has been avoiding John too and while a part of her worries about  _ why _ that might be-

John doesn’t have it in him. He might have…  _ feelings  _ for Sherlock but if he never acted on them while they both were unattached, she sincerely doubts he would have done it when he was already engaged.

Then again-

But no. John is probably just avoiding facing any reminders of the life he lost and so trying to distance himself from what he can no longer have. Mary isn’t quite sure what that says about their marriage, or the fact that she’s willing to pretend she doesn’t realize this says about herself .

The cab finally stops outside of Baker Street and John is out of it and knocking on the door a second later. Mary smiles a bit bitterly and pays the fare just as John makes his way back to her, offering her a sheepish smile. She laughs it off, ignoring her heartache as she watches John hugging Mrs. Hudson enthusiastically.

_ It’s for the best,  _ she reminds herself. There are a lot of visits to Baker Street in their future if she wants things to work between them. John won’t propose them on his own, but if Mary doesn’t do it he’ll resent her for keeping him away. It’s the epitome of crazy, she thinks, but it is what it is.

The problem with loving someone more than they love you is that you’re willing to do all sort of stupid stuff, she thinks morosely as they make their way upstairs. There’s also her own…  _ secret _ to consider and the guilt she feels over it, so maybe that’s why-

From the corner of her eye, she catches Mrs. Hudson’s concerned stare and she frowns. The older woman looks honestly worried and Mary wonders what might they find in Sherlock’s flat. Her stomach drops, hoping against hope he hasn’t done something stupid that will get John to feel guilty for moving out. In all honestly, that’s the last thing they need right now.

“-obviously doing it wrong.”

“Yes, Sherlock, that’s very helpful,” Mycroft is saying once they’ve finally made it to the flat. Mary arches an eyebrow, inspecting the mess the place is, bits and pieces of furniture here and there. There seems to be some kind of complete renovation going on and for some reason Sherlock has gotten his brother and Greg Lestrade involved in it, all the while not asking for John’s help.

This is going to go  _ marvelously. _

“What’s going on in here?” John demands, looking slightly horrified. Mary rubs her temples tiredly, rethinking the brilliance of her idea. “Are you- are you getting rid of all our furniture?”

_ His furniture.  _ Sherlock is the only one living here nowadays and John should remember that. But Mary keeps her thoughts to herself, even though she’s getting angry now.

“My furniture, John,” Sherlock replies sharply and Mary can’t help smiling bitterly. “And yes. I’m doing a bit of… spring cleaning, if you will.”

John huffs, entering the flat fully and looking around. Mary follows, eyes sweeping across the room until they land on the thing Mycroft and Greg are attempting to build. Her heart stops in her chest as she turns to look at Sherlock, wondering what the hell is going on.

She never noticed Sherlock was…  _ like that.  _ It’s clear as day now, of course, but in all their acquaintance, she never thought-

The consulting detective has his arms crossed over his chest, just over the slight curve of his belly. Mary is fairly certain she’s going to be sick any minute now, because-

Of course it’s possible Sherlock decided sleeping around was the way to get over his heart break, but she doubts it. And if that’s not the case-

She looks at John, who is arguing about one thing or another with Sherlock, evidently not noticing anything amiss. She turns to Greg and Mycroft, who are standing very still and eying her nervously while trying to look inconspicuous.

“You got rid of my chair.” John’s words cut through her stupor and she turns to look at him, trying to keep her expression neutral. “Why would you-”

“It obstructed my view of the kitchen.”

“It-? Sherlock-”

“Besides, the place would be a little cramped with it in here.”

“Why-?”

“Are you going to place the crib here, then?” Mary interrupts, her tone probably bitter and both John and Sherlock turn to look at her sharply. She smiles tightly and Sherlock bites his lip before looking away.

“Yes. Umm… my room isn’t big enough for the bed and the crib, so I thought-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” John interrupts and Sherlock looks at him as if he’s been gutted, so Mary decides to step in before this spirals out of control.

“For God’s sake, John, you’re a doctor,” she says, her tone more cutting than she intended, “ _ look  _ at him.”

John does exactly that and Mary looks upwards, trying to calm herself. This visit isn’t going one bit as she imagined and she can’t help wondering if it’ll end in a complete disaster.

“Oh,” John murmurs finally, voice a barely audible whisper. Mary looks at him and has to avert her gaze right away, not being able to stand how absolutely devastated he looks. “I- I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“It wasn’t anything serious,” Sherlock replies with a shrug, taking a step back, face perfectly blank. “But well… I figured it might be time for me to settle down, since that’s what people around me are doing.” 

Mary isn’t sure how is she supposed to feel about Sherlock’s statement. She knows that’s not true, she  _ knows  _ the baby Sherlock is carrying is John’s baby, but why-?

“Why don’t we go out for something to eat?” she proposes, approaching Sherlock and grabbing him by the wrist, both in an attempt to escape the tension in the room and to try to make sense of her scattered thoughts. “Let the boys handle the heavy lifting while we get them something to recover their strength, huh?”

Sherlock is looking at her warily, evidently not trusting her smile.  _ Good,  _ she thinks darkly.  _ He knows he has some serious explaining to do. _

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees finally, attempting to smile. “Yes, that sounds- yes. Let’s go.”

Mary smiles and pulls him towards the door, not allowing him to say another word to anyone else. From the corner of her eye she catches sight of Mycroft sending a text and she smiles. If she wanted Sherlock Holmes dead, all the protection in the world would be pointless.

But as things stand, she just wants to  _ talk _ .

At least for now.

 

* * *

 

“Is it John’s?” Mary asks simply while they stand in line waiting to order some take away. She doesn’t look at Sherlock, not wanting to see whatever expression might cross his face. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but he really doesn’t need to. Mary takes a deep breath, willing herself to keep calm.

“I’m not going to tell him.” Sherlock says as soon as they have sat down to wait for the food, well in the back of the crowded restaurant where they won’t be overheard. “I promise I won’t.”

Mary nods, staring at her hands, incapable of facing him. “Why?” she asks quietly, her emotions warring inside her. She’s… sad, mostly. Perhaps a little angry, but not overly so.

Sherlock sighs, staring at his own hands. “It was a mistake,” he replies slowly. “I don’t- I don’t even remember it and I’m certain neither does John. We were too drunk.”

Mary bites her lip. “The stag night?”

A nod. She closes her eyes, getting her emotions in check once more. “It was a mistake, Mary,” Sherlock insists, placing a hand over hers to grab her attention. “John loves you.”

Mary has to laugh at that. “Does he, now? We both know that if you told him, he’d leave me in a heartbeat.”

That gives Sherlock pause and Mary squeezes her eyes shut. She’s not going to cry,  _ she’s not _ . “I won’t tell him,” her companion assures her again, “it wouldn’t be fair on either of you. He- he chose you.”

“He loves you,” she argues and she doesn’t know why she does it. She should just-

“Not like he loves you,” Sherlock says, sounding infinitely sad and Mary wants to scream. He’s right about that, of course, but not for the reasons he thinks. 

“I didn’t know you were…” she waves her hands vaguely and Sherlock frowns. “I might have been slightly more wary of your relationship if I had known-”

“While I might have all the bits John usually likes on his sexual partners,” the other interrupts her darkly. “I assure you I’m a man and I don’t take it kindly being treated as anything else.”

Mary almost laughs at that. John is hiding so deep in the closet that he even has the great Sherlock Holmes confused. _ Hilarious _ , really. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she murmurs placatingly and Sherlock sighs, looking away.

“It’s fine. I know this is a lot to… take in.”

Mary laughs now. “Alright then. So we… we just carry on as before?” she asks, feeling wrong footed. She doesn’t particularly like their situation, but what can she do? She can’t confront John about this. She just won’t.

Sherlock attempts to smile and fails miserably, so he settles for a firm nod.

She sighs. Just how long can this last?

 

* * *

 

The trip back home is quiet, both John and her lost in their own thoughts. John honestly doesn’t seem to even suspect he’s going to be a father and so she guesses Sherlock is right and they both were too drunk to remember. 

She doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.

She watches John as he goes through his nighttime routine and wonders why is she willing to live this lie. She loves him, god, how could she not, but-

When she met John, she was having trouble adjusting to civilian life. She never thought she could ever embrace  _ normalcy  _ so willingly, not even after the complete mess her last mission had turned out to be. She had thought she would lie low for a while and then go back to the game.

As it turned out-

She does miss her old life, there’s no denying that. But she thought she could live with this. John made her happy and they got along great, both merrily ignoring the demons that haunted them and keeping each other company when things got rough. It wasn’t perfect, not by far, but she was  _ happy. _

And then Sherlock had come back.

She had known John was going to propose that night and she had thought Sherlock’s reappearance would put a stop to that. She had thought maybe this was a sign from the universe, telling her it was time to go back to  _ work  _ and abandon this ridiculous idea of being  _ normal. _

But John had proposed. And she had said yes.

And now here they are, in this horrible mess of their own creation. She supposes she could run and never look back, but  _ she doesn’t want to.  _ What does it say about herself that she’s willing to continue living this lie? Why would she do this to herself? She’s better than this. She deserves better than this.

Doesn’t she?

She has done some… horrible things. And she doesn’t regret them, not exactly but she wants to forget. She glances at her wedding ring and thinks maybe, just maybe, she should do something to stop this before it spirals out of control.

She looks at John, who is now lying next to her and has picked up his book. He’s going to find out the truth sooner or later, regardless of what Sherlock has promised her. Secrets never stay buried for long.

She would know about that.

She frowns as she remembers she has other  _ things  _ to deal with right now. One problem at the time. First she needs to deal with Magnussen, then she will handle this Sherlock-issue.

She has time, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
> I struggled a lot with the last part, because it kept going in a murder-y direction and that’s not the plan at all. I’ve been wanting to rewrite the scene where Mary shoots Sherlock since forever (well, since T6T actually, because it doesn’t make sense to me otherwise) and I figured this was the right fic for it.
> 
> As I said before, I’m not a fan of Mary, but I don’t particularly  _ dislike  _ her either. So the characterization here makes me nervous because… well, it’s tricky to know how she’d react to the situation. I mean, personally, I’d like to think that if I found out my partner cheated on me I would drop his sorry ass in that instant, but from what I’ve seen, real life is never quite that easy. That being said, this is Mary we’re talking about. Then again, I do think she loved John (somewhat? in her way? definitely not like Sherlock does, but you get the point. I hope).
> 
> I’m concerned the pace seems a little off, but since we’re just following Mary’s POV, I think it’s understandable how I sort of overlooked everyone else’s reactions. Or at least I hope so! :P
> 
> One last thing, would you guys prefer to read John’s POV next or Sherlock’s?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I had actually written Sherlock’s POV first, but well, majority wins! And it doesn’t really matter, since both of their POVs don’t interconnect until chapter 6 (or maybe 7)  
> Enjoy!

The revelation has left John’s mind reeling, so he’s more than a bit grateful when Mary takes Sherlock out of the flat, giving him time to gather his thoughts. He can imagine how awful he looks, as if someone has just gutted him.

He sits down, hiding his face behind his hands, trying to keep his emotions under control. Sherlock had always claimed not to have any interest in _dating_ or even casual sex _,_ so the fact that he has somehow ended up pregnant-

He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to cry. He has no right, not at all. It’s not like he and Sherlock were anything other than friends and he owed John no promises, so if he has chosen to sleep with someone and have children with them-

It’s none of John’s bloody business. Regardless of his… _feelings_ for his friend, he has no claim over him.

And he’s married now, of course. Something that he should keep in mind at all times.

He realizes the room is entirely too quiet, despite the fact that he’s not on his own. He looks up to find Greg and Mycroft having an entirely silent conversation which seems to have both of them frustrated.

Finally, Greg sighs, taking a seat next to John on the couch and placing a hand on his shoulder in silent support. Mycroft scoffs and heads towards the kitchen where he makes sure to make a lot of noise while searching for… something.

“Are you alright?” Greg questions softly, gaze full of pity and John hates that despite _everything_ Sherlock still has this much influence in the way he feels. He spent two hellish years feeling dead inside, but he had thought he had _moved on_ and then the infuriating man had just turned up, _not dead_ and John had been just as enthralled by him as ever.

Too bad the feeling was never mutual. “Yeah,” he murmurs dejectedly. “It’s just- it’s a lot to take in.”

Greg nods along and John leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damn. I don’t- I _shouldn’t_ be feeling this way. I mean, I have Mary and I love her, I swear I do, but to think- I know I have no claim over him and he can do with his body whatever he pleases but this just seems- why would he do that?”

Greg’s eyes are fixed on the wall, biting his lip thoughtfully. “I think- No, I _know_ he’s lonely.”

John chuckles humorlessly. “And so he figured having a child was the solution to it?” he asks bitterly, glaring at nothing in particular. “What about the other father? He said- he said it hadn’t been anything serious, so-”

“Sherlock won’t tell him,” Greg interrupts him sharply. “He’s quite determined to bring up the child himself.”

John’s heart clenches painfully in his chest and he sighs, shaking his head. “It won’t be easy. Does he even know-?”

“John, this is Sherlock we’re talking about. He has examined and analyzed every possible scenario and evidently he thinks he can do it, so it’s really not our place to judge his choices. There’s nothing to do but support him.”

“Of course. Of course, you’re right,” John says, closing his eyes to keep tears at bay. “I just wish- I don’t even know what I wish for.”

Greg offers him a sad smile and pats his shoulder awkwardly. John stares at the pieces of wood that are meant to be the crib for Sherlock’s baby and he rubs his chest absentmindedly, attempting to chase the pain away.

“Right,” he murmurs, standing up, having figured out the best thing to do now is to keep himself distracted. “Let’s- I’ll help you with this. You don’t seem to be making much progress.”

Greg gives him a look that tells him he knows exactly what he’s doing, but he doesn’t comment, helping John with the pieces. Mycroft comes back at some point, bringing a kettle with him and sitting down to watch them after pouring a cup for each.

John distracts himself with the manual work, ignoring the way his heart seems to break with each passing second.

He has no right to feel like this.

Sherlock was never his.

And yet-

 

* * *

 

The trip back home is done in complete silence and John is thankful for it. It was weird sitting in Sherlock’s flat, noticing all the small changes that had already taken place and thinking of all those that were yet to come.

After Sherlock had… left, he couldn’t stand staying in Baker Street and so he had fled. He hadn’t come back until he had believed he could stand it and even then it was only to say goodbye to his old life. But the moment he had stepped inside-

He had reconsidered his future plans with Mary right then, because he had realized he wasn’t over what had happened. He still missed Sherlock fiercely and he probably always would. Regardless of what his friend’s feelings for him might had been, John had loved him as he doubted he could ever love someone else.

But then- then he had thought that wasn’t fair. Because Sherlock was gone and he was still here and didn’t he deserve happiness? And Mary made him happy. _He loved her, he loves her still and yet-_

As usual, Sherlock had complicated things. He had never felt so conflicted about something as he felt that night, laying in the bed he now shared with Mary, thinking of the man he’d rather share _his whole life_ with. He had been angry of course, and frustrated at Sherlock’s complete inability to understand _why_ was he upset and his easy assumption things could simply go back to normal.

But the thing is, _they could have._ Angry as he had been, a part of him had been all too willing to throw caution to the wind and allow himself to become trapped in the madness that living with Sherlock was _again_. However those 2 years hadn’t passed in vain and in the end his own survival instinct had kicked in and urged him to keep some distance. He couldn’t go back to have Sherlock as the center of his life, not when the other man was obviously unwilling to take his feelings into consideration.

And so he had proposed to Mary. And married her. And now here they are, living the life he always assumed he wanted, the life that would have been perfect for him if-

If he hadn’t met Sherlock Holmes.

He closes the bathroom door after him and taking advantage of the privacy gained here he allows himself to shed a couple of tears. He had wanted so many things from Sherlock, _a family_ had certainly been among them, but he had been willing to settle for so much less. All that mattered was keeping Sherlock in his life, no matter the price.

The _issue_ with Moriarty had certainly taken a toll on them and while John _understands_ at some level why Sherlock did what he did, he can’t quite forgive him. Maybe he will, one day, but-

He sighs, running a hand over his face. He supposes they both have been a bit naive, thinking their odd _relationship_ could remain unchanged even after Sherlock’s disappearance and later John’s marriage. As if distance, regardless of its reasons, didn’t change people.

He almost laughs, but forces himself to hold back if only not to disturb Mary. He shouldn’t let his own internal struggle show; his wife doesn’t deserves this. She loves him and she cares and she probably understands, but it’s not fair. He swore fidelity to her and yet-

He squeezes his eyes shut as a half formed memory from the stag night makes its way to the front of his mind. He’s not quite sure if it’s a memory or a dream, but he’s unwilling to think much about it.

It’s not he hasn’t fantasized about Sherlock before. Even before _everything,_ he occasionally indulged himself thinking of his best friend _in that way,_ even if he felt horribly guilty afterwards. But he always reasoned with himself that as long as he didn’t do anything that might compromise their friendship, it wasn’t that bad.

And later- well, he felt twice as guilty since he actually had Mary and Sherlock still didn’t know about the depth of his feelings for him, but-

Still, _fantasies_ per se aren’t _that bad_. Everyone has them, don’t they? And it’s not- well, of course he’d have liked to act on them, but since Sherlock wasn’t interested-

But that _not-memory_ from the stag night haunts him as none of his previous dreams or fantasies have. He remembers the bitter taste of beer on Sherlock’s tongue, the small gasp/moan he let out as John clumsily deepened the kiss, pulling his hair gently to get better access. Their awkward fumbling in the bedroom as they attempted to take each other’s clothes without stopping kissing, the way Sherlock looked at him, as if he was the single most marvelous thing in the world and-

Except he can’t _remember_ that because it _never_ happened. He had woken up with a horrible headache, naked in Sherlock’s bed, _alone_ and his friend hadn’t said _anything._ Surely if something had indeed happened, Sherlock wouldn’t have let him go just like that. Surely if they had slept together, Sherlock’s first words the following morning wouldn’t have been about how he should remember the wedding rehearsal was at 8 and that he should remember to pick up his tux.

But since that was what had happened, he must assume it had been a (particularly vivid, terribly damning) _dream._

He sighs once more, thinking Sherlock chose the perfect time to decide he wanted to _settle down._ If only-

They lived together for a couple of years and it hadn’t been idyllic, but John had thought they got along fine, more than fine even. And he had thought that was all Sherlock wanted; he hadn’t imagined he would be inclined to marry and have children and whatnot.

But then, the man does everything his way and even if he had wanted that, he wouldn’t have chose John for it.

God, why is he torturing himself like this? What’s done is done and there are two facts he can not (and shouldn’t want to) change: 1) He’s married to Mary and 2) Sherlock is expecting someone else’s baby.

And there’s nothing to do about it.

It is what it is.

 

* * *

 

“Do you ever think about it?”

John hums questioningly as he pours himself another cup of coffee, not really looking at his wife. Mary is at her usual place at the table, playing with her food, looking completely disinterested in her, by now, stone cold breakfast.

Mary sighs. “Children, John. Do you want children?”

John stares at her for a few seconds, gaping like a fish out of water. Mary has arched an eyebrow, a sly smile on her lips and he forces himself to shut his mouth, take a deep breath and come up with a somewhat honest answer.

“It’s not something I’ve thought much about,” he replies eventually and Mary nods thoughtfully.

“Perhaps we should try for one,” she says, almost in an after thought. “Sherlock’s baby would probably do with a playmate. Wouldn’t that be cute?”

John’s stomach turns unpleasantly, but he smiles at her as if he actually thought the idea is _cute._ “Something to think about, definitely,” he says, standing up and taking his half empty plate to the sink. Mary is watching him funnily and he smiles tightly. “I’m not very hungry.”

Mary nods, but there’s something in her eyes that tells him she doesn’t believe him. Which of course makes him feel guilty, but he tries not to let it show.

God, in what mess has he gotten himself into?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
> I swear I’m getting to HLV’s actual plot soon (well, maybe chapter 8), I just want to make sure all the pieces are in position before Mary shoots Sherlock. Next chapter runs from Sherlock’s POV and then I’m thinking we’re getting Mycroft again (or maybe Greg. We haven’t had Greg’s POV). Then I expect to get to HLV’s   
>  _  
>  actual plot   
>  _  
>  (of sorts) although I’m still trying to figure how will Sherlock get into Magnussen’s office, considering he’s not “seeing” Janine in here.
> 
>  
> 
> Suggestions are always welcome (although I make no promises!)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Quick, wasn’t it? But as I said, I had Sherlock’s POV mostly written already (I just changed a few things at the end). I’m afraid the plot isn’t moving along that much, but next chapter should remedy that (I think?).  
> In the meantime, enjoy!

Sherlock stands by the window, watching as John and Mary get into a cab. Mary gets in first, John holding the door for her, both apparently lost in their thoughts. John looks in his direction briefly, but if he sees Sherlock standing there he doesn’t acknowledge him, simply climbing into the cab after his wife.

Sherlock sighs.

He can hear Mycroft and Lestrade talking between them, so low he can barely hear their murmurs. Not that it matters; he can imagine well enough what they’re discussing.

He caresses his abdomen absent mindedly, thinking of his conversation with Mary. He hadn’t been expecting her to react so calmly and he’s not sure what to think about it. She might be in shock, he supposes, and so the worst might be yet to come.

But maybe not. Mary probably understands she has nothing to worry about; John loves her and the… slip on the stag night means nothing in the great scheme of things. It’s not like Sherlock is expecting anything from him, not even his friendship at this point. And evidently John doesn’t remember a thing since he’s not even a tiny bit suspicious he might be Sherlock’s baby’s other father.

That’s good, isn’t it? That’s what he was hoping, wasn’t it?

Why does he feel so upset then?

“Stupid hormones,” he murmurs to himself. He has spent this last month feeling like crap: tired all the time, sick on his stomach half of the time and enduring horrible headaches, not to mention the mood swings.

Although to be fair, most of it is the result of him going through withdrawal. And as anyone who has known him long would tell you, he has always had mood swings.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade questions softly, tone gentle and concerned, “are you alright?”

Sherlock considers this. Is he alright? “I’m tired,” he replies after a beat, hugging himself. “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit.” He catches sight of his brother’s concerned expression, but he ignores him with practiced ease and hurries into his bedroom, making sure to lock the door after him.

He is indeed tired and certainly in no mood to listen or talk to anyone. He was doing so well, really. Of course he ached and he missed John and their shared life, but _he had gotten used to it._ He had spent 2 years running around the world and feeling like this, so he had imagined he would survive this just fine. At least this time around he wasn’t attempting to bring down a criminal network. At least now it seemed unlikely someone would capture and torture him just for the sake of it.

And yet-

He doesn’t expect anything from John, really. He knows he has _no right_ to expect anything. John chose Mary and nothing can change that.

Except-

But that would be unfair. On all of them, really. Because John chose Mary and he would be leaving the woman he loves for the the sake of his unborn child and that wouldn’t be right. Sherlock is fine, he’ll be fine. He knows raising a child won’t be easy, particularly not on his own but he can do it.

He has no right to ruin John’s happiness.

He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his temples in an attempt to chase off his incoming headache. John’s happiness is all that matters, _it’s all that has always mattered_ . And Sherlock can be happy, he _will_ be happy. Maybe he won’t have exactly what he wanted, but-

He places a hand over his abdomen, smiling to himself.

It’ll be enough.

* * *

 

Sherlock sits on the bathroom floor, head resting against the cold tiles as he tries to get his stomach to settle down. The taste of vomit lingers in his mouth and he wants to brush his teeth, but he has learned from experience that it’s better to wait for a bit, to make sure he won’t throw up again.

He closes his eyes, counting to ten inside his head. He’s starving, but the smell of the eggs had made his stomach turn and so he’s nauseated. Any other time he’d simply skip breakfast altogether, ignoring his stomach’s protests, but he can’t do that now. He needs to gain weight, both for his sake and for his baby’s.

He caresses his slight baby bump and smiles. Supposedly it’s a bit early for him to be already showing, but considering how skinny he’s always been, not to mention his tendency to go so many days without any proper meal, his stomach has always been excessively flat and so even the slightest bump would be noticeable.

A part of him is happy with this: the slight curve of his abdomen reminds him he has a good reason to carry on now. It makes him anxious too, though. If things continue like this, he won’t be able to hide it for much longer and he honestly doesn’t want to deal with other people knowing.

He imagines what they’ll say. He’s never- he’s never actually hidden his- that his body doesn’t match his identity isn’t exactly a _secret_ , but it’s not something he brings up in a regular conversation. It’s nobody’s business, honestly and a couple of… _disappointing_ encounters when he was much younger convinced him it wasn’t a good idea letting people know.

People already consider him a _Freak;_ there’s no need to give them more reasons to do so.

Something for another day to consider, he supposes. He stands up on wobbly legs and makes his way to the sink so he can brush his teeth. A quick look in the mirror reveals he looks as bad as he feels and he makes a face. It’s lucky he doesn’t have anyone to impress, really.

His mind goes to John immediately and he groans. His _friend_ never appreciated his physical qualities anyway, so he doesn’t think he’d mind him like this. But he thinks he’d be thrilled at the idea of a child; despite his protestations John has always been quite caring and nurturing. Part of being a doctor, Sherlock supposes.

He sighs. He needs to stop thinking like this; it’ll do nothing but hurt him in the long run. While on a conscious level he has accepted John can never be his, his stupid subconscious has other ideas. He thinks back on his conversation with Mary and berates himself for even allowing himself to fantasize about a life with John at his side. That’s just not in the cards for him.

No use on planning for what can’t be.

And yet-

* * *

 

“Are you still pursuing this case?” Mycroft demands angrily, eying Sherlock’s research distastefully. “It won’t end well, Sherlock.”

The younger man doesn’t reply and continues lying on the couch, fingers linked beneath his chin. Mycroft snorts, looking around the cramped room for a place to sit. “You do realize you’ll have to keep this a bit more organized once the baby is born, don’t you? You’ll end up losing it in this mess otherwise.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. “As soon as your minions are done with the flat’s remodelation, I’ll make sure to keep it cleaner.” He sits up, so allowing his brother to sit next to him. “In the meantime, it’s of no use. Every time Mrs. Hudson tries to tidy up, they end up moving things around once more.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, willing himself not to lose his temper. “Fine then. So, about this case-”

“You’re friends with Lady Smallwood, are you not? Surely you don’t want that snake to continue blackmailing her?”

Mycroft sighs. “Charles Augustus Magnussen is a powerful, dangerous man. Everyone knows the wisest thing to do when being threatened by him is to comply with his demands.”

Sherlock scrunches his nose. “I’m disappointed on you, big brother.” He stands up, heading towards the kitchen in search for something to eat (it seems like he’s hungry all the time nowadays and isn’t that funny?) “I’d have thought you had a bit more of backbone.”

“Backbone yes, but I’m not an idiot,” Mycroft protests sofly. “Sherlock, now is really not the time to be upsetting that man. Not when you have so many secrets of your own.”

The younger man scoffs. “In a few months the whole world will know of my _situation,_ regardless of what I do.”

“Of your situation yes. Of your child’s parentage? I thought you wanted to keep that a secret.”

Sherlock glares, but Mycroft remains unperturbed. “I’m serious, brother dear. You’re playing with fire and you _will_ get burned.”

Sherlock considers this for a beat before shrugging non committedly, making Mycroft sigh once more. “On a slightly related subject,” Mycroft says, figuring there’s no point on arguing with Sherlock when he gets like this. “Would you care to share with me what Mrs. Watson told you the other night?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to sigh. “Nothing, really. She knows it’s John’s, but she’s willing to pretend, just as myself. There’s really nothing to worry about.”

Mycroft frowns, unconvinced. “She seems to be taking it too well, don’t you think?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “what? do you think she’s planning on shooting me when I’m not looking?”

Mycroft smiles tightly. “ _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned._ ”

Sherlock shakes his head, amused. “Always so over dramatic, brother dear.”

There’s nothing to worry on that front, really.

Mary understands.

* * *

 

Mycroft is angry (or frustrated, Sherlock can’t really say) and so he spends the whole trip to the hospital pointedly ignoring Sherlock. This of course suits the younger man perfectly well, since he’s in no mood to be reprimanded (again) for being careless.

It’s not his fault, really. If Lestrade’s men weren’t so bloody incompetent-

He sighs. The DI has already chewed his ear off, but he can tell he’s going to continue reprimanding him as soon as the doctor tells him he is, indeed, perfectly fine. Sherlock holds back a groan, thinking this night can’t end soon enough.

Sneaking into the OB-GYN wing of the hospital is as easy as ever, even though his older brother likes to act as if it was nearly impossible. People never observe and while 2 men making their way towards Dr. Wales office might be suspicious, it’d only be if people actually _noticed._

Still, he has never visited Dr. Wales this often, but he hopes those ridiculous paparazzis aren’t following his steps quite as closely as they did before _The Fall_. He has never thought of himself as a celebrity, really, but the press doesn’t seem to share his idea.

Regardless, people finding out about his _state_ will certainly make it to the front page of one those ridiculous _gossip_ newspapers.

Like those Charles Augustus Magnussen owns.

He frowns. He hasn’t made as much progress on that particular case as he would like, but blackmailers are always tricky. Magnussen even more so, since he actually seems to know what he’s doing and has his back well covered. If things continue like this, Sherlock will have no other choice but attempt to sneak into his office and look for the letters himself.

Which would be all kind of dangerous, probably.

Unadvisable in his current state, in any case. Although he thinks he’s onto something with Janine, and if he plays his cards right, he thinks he could-

Dr. Wales’ thoughtful hum interrupts his planning abruptly, his whole focus going to her. Mycroft is also staring intently at the woman, who is busy staring at the small screen of the sonogram and so has failed to notice the concerned gazes turned in her direction.

“What?” Sherlock demands after a beat, aiming to sound annoyed but probably just sounding as terrified as he feels. His brother squeezes his shoulder comfortingly (or at least that’s the intention, he supposes), but he barely notices, his mind clouded by fear. Everything must be fine; there’s nothing that suggests vigorous exercise (of the chasing criminals kind) can be damaging for a pregnancy, even if-

“Oh, it’s nothing,” the doctor says, turning to face him and offering him a small smile that’s meant to be reassuring but does little to ease Sherlock’s panic. “I just- it’s a very big baby. I mean, slightly bigger than the standard at this point and that might be problematic for the birth although it might a little too soon to worry, but I’d advice…”

Her words drown out as Sherlock finds himself breathing easier. His baby is fine and that’s all that matters to him. Possible birth complications is not something he thinks he needs to worry overly so, particularly since he has already decided on a C-section. What Dr. Wales might have to say on the subject is not something he concerns himself with; it’s his body and it’s his decision and regular birth sounds awfully… _messy_.

He notices his brother is looking at him with a big frown on his face and he blinks confusedly. Dr. Wales clears her throat, dragging his attention back to her and the woman smiles at him tightly. “I was saying, you really ought to be more careful.” Sherlock scoffs dismissively and the doctor narrows her eyes at him. “I’m serious, Mr. Holmes. Considering your medical history, it’s nothing short from a miracle the fact that not only you could conceive but that you didn’t miscarriage. At this point a miscarriage might not be a concern, but an early birth…” she trails off, lips pursued. “I really can’t emphasize enough how vital it is you’re a bit more careful with your… _transport._ ”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, but the woman doesn’t bat an eyelash. Considering she’s been dealing with him and his glares since he was 14, he supposes that’s not entirely surprising. “Fine,” he murmurs, making sure to send a glare in his brother’s direction since he’s smiling smugly at him.

This whole pregnancy thing can be horribly tiresome.

As he feels a flutter inside, he can’t help smiling, placing a hand over his abdomen. Tiresome, yes, but he can’t deny he’s happy- happier than he has been in a very _very_ long time. He hasn’t felt this way since-

Well.

He closes his eyes, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly.

Nothing short from a miracle indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, next chapter should start getting us on track for the actual plot of HLV. I’m a little concerned about the whole “shooting-thing” because… well, shouldn’t that trigger an early birth? And that will certainly mess up things a bit… oh, research research research.  
> Also, did you see what I did in the conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft concerning Mary? I couldn’t resist :P  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it despite nothing much actually happening. I think I have solved the little issue about how to get Sherlock’s into Magnussen’s office (thanks DaisyFairy!) but well… there’s still a bit to go before that ;)  
> Next update might take a while before I won’t be at the office on Thursday nor Friday and I’ll be stuck at my in-laws’ for the weekend, so I doubt I’ll get the chance to write much.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the late update! But as I said, I didn’t work most of last week and now I’m the middle of a big project (that I won’t get to see finished, but that’s another story) so I didn’t have as much time as I wanted to write.  
> Still, I’m pretty inspired for this work so… well, here we are.  
> There’s a bit that has me concerned, but I think it gets handled. Still, I’d appreciate any constructive criticism you can give me.  
> So, without further ado, on with the chapter!

There was a time when a black car waiting for him outside the Yard was an everyday occurrence. He had thought those days long gone, particularly after John Watson came into their lives, but it seems he was quite mistaken.

He sighs, opening the door and slipping in. It’s just him and Mycroft this time, no sight of the pretty but horribly unnerving assistant. He smiles briefly at the other man and gets a polite nod for his troubles while Mycroft’s attention remains on his phone.

The car starts moving and Greg sighs once more after spotting the small night bag sitting on the floor. There’s a part of him that thinks it’d be nice to be asked what he actually wants to do, but he learned long ago that you just don’t say _no_ to Mycroft Holmes.

What Mycroft wants, Mycroft gets.

Still, it’d be nice to feel like he’s being taken into consideration; as if he’s not simply Sherlock’s _nanny_ , who must be ready to look after him whenever the occasion arises. It’s not like he’d say no, honestly. He cares for the mad bastard too much to turn his back on him, particularly when he’s going through one of his _rough phases_.

“There’ve been some… _troubling_ developments since the Watsons last visit,” Mycroft says as they approach Baker Street, putting his phone away. Greg leans in without noticing, worried already. “Of course Sherlock might say otherwise but…” he trails off, waving a hand vaguely and making Greg frown. “You’ll see,” he finishes darkly and Greg nods, knowing better than to ask. He leans back on his seat once more and stares outside the window, watching the city pass and silently thanking whatever gods that might be listening that he hasn’t had a particularly difficult case in a while.

They finally make it to their destination, just in time to watch John leaving the building. He doesn’t see them, apparently lost in his thoughts and Mycroft’s lips tighten, clueing Greg in what exactly these _troubling developments_ are. He understands why Mycroft finds them concerning, but surely-

His thoughts get interrupted as his companion steps out of the car and starts walking towards the door. He sighs and grabs the bags with the takeout boxes, along with his nighttime bag and exits the car too, hurrying after the other man.

When he actually makes it to Sherlock’s flat, the brothers are already arguing. Greg heads straight to the kitchen, carefully unpacking dinner, noticing there’s enough food for the three of them. He frowns, thinking Mycroft must be certainly worried if he’s willing to spend the night at Baker Street, despite knowing how that is bound to mess up with his schedule.

“I’m perfectly fine!” Sherlock yells, startling Greg and making him almost drop one of the boxes. He spares a quick glance in the direction of the living room and he looks away immediately. The pain in Sherlock’s tone is awful enough, without having to look at his desperate face.

“Why must you insist on torturing yourself like this?” Mycroft hisses, annoyance evident in his tone, but also some desperation. “Don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? You can not-”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock exclaims once more and Greg closes his eyes, wishing there was something he could do to ease the younger man’s pain. “I just- We’re just- He’s my friend! Surely I’m allowed to see my friend?”

“Your friend?” Mycroft repeats mockingly. “Oh sure, some _friend_ he is. Have you learned nothing at all? I told you you were too involved and look at what happened! And yet, even though you know I’m right, you continue-”

“I have no delusions of my place in John’s life-”

“Oh, good! Nicely done, brother dear! Considering he knocked you up and now is attempting to do the same to his wife-”

“How dare you-?”

Greg tunes them out, not really wanting to listen to that. He’s not exactly surprised, considering Sherlock could read his ex-wife’s sex life on him somehow, but he imagines being that perceptive must be hell in this particular situation. He does think Mycroft has a point; it’d be entirely too easy for Sherlock to forget things aren’t what they were, _can never be what they were_ , if he continues seeing John this much, but then-

“-were a proper man.”

The last sentence and the deafening silence following it makes Greg look in the brothers’ direction once more. Sherlock looks like he’s been stuck, but composes his expression almost instantly, nothing but cold indifference reflecting on his face. Mycroft on the other hand looks properly horrified, as if he cannot quite believe what he has just said.

Neither can Greg, to be honest.

“Get out,” Sherlock says, voice firm even if his whole body is shaking.

“Sherlock-” his brother pleads, reaching for him, evidently wanting to apologise but not sure how.

“GET OUT!” The younger man yells, not looking at him, his shaking intensifying. Greg quickly moves to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder in silent support while he gestures for Mycroft to leave.

The older Holmes stares at him for a beat before turning to look at his brother once more, regret written plainly all over his face and he nods tightly once before exiting the flat as swiftly as he can. Sherlock remains where he is, shaking more and more and Greg finally gathers him in his arms, holding him tight even when he attempts to push him away.

Finally all the fight seems to leave the consulting detective and he collapses against Greg, sobbing openly now. The Inspector simply holds him, running a hand up and down his spine, making soft cooing noises.

God, how have they come to this?

* * *

 

“You know he didn’t mean it like that.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement, continuing to pick at his food without any enthusiasm. Greg sighs, eying his own food distastefully. He’s not really hungry anymore, but-

“He’s right, though,” Sherlock murmurs after what feels like an eternity, not looking at him. “If I was a _proper man-_ or a _proper woman,_ for that matter-”

“Don’t,” Greg interrupts him sharply and this time Sherlock does look at him. “Don’t do that to yourself, Sherlock. And you do know Mycroft didn’t mean that.”

“Didn’t he?” Sherlock asks, absentmindedly rubbing his abdomen. “I don’t know- I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Greg sighs, uncertain how to handle the situation. The relationship between the brothers has always been tricky, but he knows that while Mycroft might not completely understand Sherlock, he’s supportive. At least on this subject.

“He’s just concerned,” he says finally, placing a hand over the other’s knee. “And you know he doesn’t really understands _sentiment_ and he’s even worse than yourself when trying to convey anything that involves feelings in some way. He didn’t mean that.”

Sherlock chuckles bitterly. “I don’t- I’m having a hard time dealing with everything,” he confesses softly. “I know he doesn’t approve and he might be right but I don’t know... I resigned myself to a life without John, but I don’t know how to push him away if he reaches out. I don’t think I’m capable of that.” He looks at Greg, despair written all over his face. “ _It hurts._ But not having him around is ten times worse.”

Greg sighs, placing his food on the small table and pulling the taller man into an awkward embrace. “There’s no easy answer here. I think- I mean, I understand where your brother is coming from, but I do see your point. In the end, I do believe is entirely your decision to make. And also… I don’t think there’s a good or a bad choice per se.”

Sherlock shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “Either one is going to kill me inside, so…”

Greg wishes he could say that’s not true, but he can’t say for sure. He knows Sherlock is stronger than he gives himself credit for, but it is difficult to handle. Unrequited love is always awful and given Sherlock’s situation…

Not that he truly believes his love is unrequited. Anyone with eyes can see how much John cares for him, how much he _loves_ him. But Sherlock has never been very good at opening up to people and while he might never admit it, his past experiences have hurt him deeply, making him unwilling to believe that someone can actually love him as he is. With time, John might have been able to show him he did and start working past his various barriers but circumstances pulled them apart and hurt them both.

And so now everything is a mess.

Greg sighs, patting Sherlock’s back one last time before pulling away and so each one goes back to their respective dinner, a companionable if slightly depressing silence surrounding them.

This is really going to be more difficult than he could have ever imagined.

* * *

 

Greg wakes up feeling more tired than when he went to sleep. The crick on his neck isn’t helping one bit and as he tries to rub the pain away, he looks around the room, thinking he’s too old to be spending nights at someone’s couch.

Of course the second room is off-limits right now and it’s likely it’ll be turned into a nursery soon enough, so he might as well get used to it, he supposes.

From his place on the couch he catches sight of Mycroft standing at the kitchen. The man offers him a nod in greeting, most of his attention remaining on his interlocutor. Sherlock looks at him over his shoulder and smiles briefly, before turning back to his brother.

Greg smiles to himself as he makes his way towards the bathroom, happy they’re apparently making up already. Given the circumstances, Sherlock could really do with all the support he can get and Greg does know Mycroft is sorry and didn’t mean what he said last night.

It doesn’t make it alright, of course, but well-

It won’t happen again, of that he’s sure.

After a quick shower, he makes his way into the living room, silently praying he won’t be called into the office today. It’s not that usual for him to work during the weekend anymore, but-

His thoughts get interrupted by the sight that greets him in the living room. He smiles politely at John and Mary; the first smiles tightly back while the later beams brightly at him, gesturing for him to come closer and inspect the gifts they have brought along.

Greg wonders what Mary’s endgame is. To him it’s totally crazy being this _chummy_ with the person your spouse cheated you on with, but he supposes the circumstances aren’t exactly _normal_ anyway so…

Besides, Mary has always seemed to understand that she needed to work around John and Sherlock’s relationship, instead of fighting it. Maybe because she actually cares for John’s happiness, maybe because it’s just easier than attempting to make him choose between her and Sherlock (and they all know how that would end, don’t they?). Either way, Greg would admit the woman knows how to play her cards right.

Baby clothes are insanely adorable and Greg finds himself nodding approvingly at whatever Mary produces from the shopping bags. Sherlock is smiling too, even if he seems slightly wary, carefully folding back the little onesies as Mary hands them to him.

From the corner of his eye he catches Mycroft’s dark look and so he excuses himself to the kitchen, where he pretends to prepare some tea while observing the other man from the corner of his eye.

“You can’t begrudge him attempting to keep their friendship,” he murmurs quietly, making sure to make a lot of noise with the kettle and the cups to drown out their words. “I know it seems crazy to you, but-”

“It’s destructive,” Mycroft interrupts darkly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nothing good can come from it.”

Greg sighs, shrugging half heartedly. “He can’t quite live without him. You know that.”

Mycroft scowls darkly, but doesn’t deny it. “It must be quite something,” Greg comments off handedly after a while, earning himself an arched eyebrow. “Loving someone like that,” he clarifies. “Loving someone so much it could actually destroy you.”

The other man stares at him for a beat, as if considering his words very seriously before scoffing. “It’s pure madness.”

“I’m guessing you’ve never felt that way?” Greg questions, aiming to sound light hearted but not quite managing. Mycroft is staring intently at him once more and he can’t help feeling suddenly self conscious.

“I’m many things, Inspector. A fool is certainly not among them.” Greg chuckles self deprecatingly, shaking his head and Mycroft’s scowl turns even darker. “Have you?” he asks after a beat and Greg sighs, looking wistful.

“Not at all, to be honest. I once thought- but well, you know how that worked out,” he finishes with a shrug. “But it must be- I’m not saying that it’s something good or bad, mind. I just mean- it must be _something._ ”

Mycroft is staring at him as if he’s not making any sense and Greg supposes he isn’t. He smiles briefly once more before placing the kettle and some cups on a small tray. “Nevermind me. I don’t know what I’m saying.” And with that he hurries out of the kitchen, acutely aware of Mycroft’s eyes following his every move.

He truly has no idea what that was about.

* * *

 

The place is coming along nicely, although Greg wonders if they’re not going a bit overboard with all the baby proofing. Of course babies need a safe environment, but they should also get the chance to explore and get themselves hurt, how do they learn otherwise?

He’s not about to say as much, though. He can already imagine the looks he’d get if he did.

Sherlock has already retired to his own room, claiming to be too tired. Greg suspects he’s not actually asleep but instead carefully reorganizing his Mind Palace and probably trying to make sense of today’s events. Mary’s attitude is more than a little confusing, in all honesty.

“I don’t like it,” Mycroft announces, slightly petulant when they sit down to eat, the telly making noise in the background. “It’s just- it’s not normal, is it?”

Greg shrugs. “You can’t say any of us is particularly normal, though,” he replies between bites. “But _it is odd_.”

Mycroft hums, tapping his fork against the plate. “I don’t- I feel like I should be doing something, but Sherlock insists to leave it alone.”

“Since when do you listen to your brother’s requests?” he asks playfully and the other scowls.

“I don’t intervene unless I feel there’s no other choice. On this particular matter, I’m trying to respect his wishes as much as I can. It’s not- I _don’t like it,_ but I don’t want to upset him further. It’s not healthy.” Greg nods, slightly concerned by Mycroft’s overly serious tone. “And after yesterday… well.”

Ah. So that’s it. “He knows you didn’t mean it.” Mycroft huffs and Greg places a hand over his, effectively startling him. “You were upset-”

“Oh please,” Mycroft interrupts him angrily, pulling away. “I should know better. _I do know better._ He’s my brother and I shouldn’t- how could I-”

“ _You didn’t mean it,_ ” Greg insists, reaching for his hand once more. “It doesn’t make it right, of course, but…” he trails off, uncertain. “Sherlock was upset, of course, but he knows you’re sorry. And you did apologise, didn’t you?” the other nods and so Greg smiles. “And you won’t do it again, will you?”

Mycroft sends him a look that says he needs to stop asking silly questions and the Inspector smiles briefly, patting the other man’s hand before turning his attention back to his food. Things are bound to be complicated for a while, but hopefully they’ll make it past this.

It’s going to be a bumpy road, that’s for sure and there’ll be a lot of hurt and guilt to go around but well…

Such is life, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts anyone?  
> As you can imagine, that little scene with the argument between Mycroft and Sherlock had me really, really worried. One might argue it’s not strictly necessary, but I think it gives them and their relationship some depth and should help to explain certain later developments (I hope?) The aftermath was really tough and painful to write, but I hope it comes across well. Using Greg’s POV certainly helped to make it not so rough for me to write, but I worry that somehow made it seem… I don’t know… cheapened? Regardless, I’d love to get any constructive criticism you can give me.  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I skipped a lot of canon things, mostly because I couldn’t quite rewrite them with what we have so far, but I worry that it makes it feel chopped. Also, the way I resolved getting Sherlock into Magnussen’s office and my little twist on the shooting scene have me more than a little worried but well…  
> I hope you’ll like it nonetheless!  
> Edit: it occurred me, a little too late probably, that I should warn for a bit of misgendering at the beginning of the chapter and at the end. I'll be more careful about it in the future.

“I appreciate your tenacity on attempting to reach me, Ms. Holmes, but I’m afraid there’s really nothing to discuss.”

Sherlock smiles tightly, reminding himself to keep his calm. Misgendering him would be the easiest way to get a rise out of him and he’s not about to give Magnussen the satisfaction. He’s determined to say his part, attempt to bargain and then show the man out if he refuses to negotiate.

“Lady Smallwood would like to have those letters. And since they’re of no use to you any longer-”

Magnussen chuckles amusedly, still walking around the flat and inspecting everything. Sherlock would have prefered meeting him at his own office, but it became very clear very soon that if the meeting was ever going to take place, it’d be under his conditions.

It’s no problem, really. Sherlock is nothing if not adaptable.

“I wouldn’t say so, not exactly,” he tells him, finally coming to sit on John’s chair. Sherlock stares at him dispassionately, despite every instinct in his body screaming about how _wrong_ that is. “Who is to say our paths won’t cross again?”

Sherlock glares, but doesn’t reply. The other man smirks, crossing his legs and leaning back on his seat. “Even if they don’t- well, there’s nothing like a nice scandal to sell papers.” Sherlock scoffs and the other’s smirk widens. “I take you’re not a fan of my work, Ms. Holmes?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I don’t see the use of all that senseless… _gossip._ ”

His interlocutor laughs and Sherlock does his best not to lose his temper. “Oh, but people _love_ the gossip. Scandal sells very well; infidelities and pregnancies are certainly good material.”  Sherlock knows a veiled threat when he hears one, but he’s not one easily intimidated, so he simply arches an eyebrow, which prompts another round of laughter from Magnussen. “Really Ms. Holmes, as… _tempted_ as I’d be to engage in _special negotiations_ with you, it’s out of the question.”

Sherlock can’t help a shiver of disgust, but doesn’t comment. Magnussen nods, standing up and gesturing for his bodyguards to leave. Sherlock wonders if he should stand up too and walk him to the door, but he supposes there’s no need for politeness.

“Take care, Ms. Holmes,” Magnussen says, a dark smile on his lips.

“It’s Mr. Holmes,” Sherlock corrects and regrets it a second later. He had been quite determined not to raise to the bait and yet-

Well. It doesn’t really matter.

“Is it?” Magnussen questions, already heading for the door, so signaling he’s quite determined to have the last word. “I wonder if people will agree when they find out about your current state.” He offers Sherlock one last mocking smile before stepping out, closing the door after him.

Sherlock takes another deep breath. Alright then, nothing for it. Time for plan B.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, are you even listening?”

“Yes, of course. Men are pigs, definitely.”

Janine laughs, throwing her head back and Sherlock offers her a smile before putting his phone away. Dimmock’s case is not even a 4 and he’s seriously regretting giving the man his contact information. At least Lestrade does know when a case is worthy of his attention and doesn’t make him waste his time that often (even if he likes to pretend otherwise).

“You weren’t listening,” Janine accuses, taking a sip from her coffee. “But you’re not wrong.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I told you a week ago that that man wasn’t good for you. You insisted on, and I quote, _giving him a chance._ ” Janine scrunches her nose and Sherlock can’t help the wave of fondness he feels for the woman. He never had that many friendly acquaintances when he was younger and while he’d normally complain about how absolutely _useless_ all this mindless chatter is, he has grown to enjoy Janine’s company.

Maybe when all this is said and done-

“Alright, enough about me,” Janine says, her tone turning oddly serious. “How are you doing?”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to scrunch his nose. “Well enough, I suppose,” he answers flippantly, earning himself a hard stare from the woman. “I’m getting as huge as a whale, I can no longer see my feet and yet I’m more aware than ever of them since they won’t stop swelling. Shoes are absolute hell,” he says finally, figuring that’s true enough.

Janine nods thoughtfully. “Maybe you should try some slippers.” Sherlock stares at her in mocking horror and she laughs once more. “That’s not what I meant, though. How are you coping?”

Sherlock sighs, looking away. He couldn’t quite tell Janine he’s expecting her best friend’s husband’s child, so he had came up with a convoluted story about how, after the wedding, feeling quite lonely, he had made a bad decision. Having made a deduction about Janine’s own bad choices after each of her friends weddings, it had been quite easy to bond over it. She’s been nice and entirely too supportive; despite how little they actually knew each other, she had been willing to help in any way she could.  At some level Sherlock regrets their whole… _relationship_ is based on a lie conceived with the sole purpose of getting him into Janine’s boss’ office, but well- There are very few things he’s not willing to do for the sake of a case. Still, he hopes Janine won’t think too badly of him afterwards and that this tentative friendship can continue.

He doesn’t have high hopes, but he’d be happy if it did work out.

“I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says after a while, since Janine keeps staring at him expectantly. “But I’m managing. Some days I just-” He looks away, aware he’s saying more than he meant to say, but incapable of holding himself back. “Feeling the baby move helps a lot with the loneliness, you know? It’s- weird, I suppose, but it does make me feel better.”

Janine hums. “You really can’t remember anything about the other father? I mean, I know having a baby it’s really not a very good basis for a relationship, but maybe-”

“It was a one time thing,” Sherlock interrupts sharply, hugging himself protectively. “He never- we didn’t- it wouldn’t work.”

The woman sighs. “I suppose you’d know better. You successfully predicted how my latest attempt of dating would go, after all.”

Sherlock huffs. “If you had paid any attention to his jeans-”

“His jeans? What do they have to do with anything?” she asks amusedly and Sherlock smirks before starting with the long list of his deductions about Janine’s date, while the woman laughs merrily.

He never understood why people indulged in this senseless ritual of complaining about their latest failed romantic endeavour, but he’s beginning to think it can be quite fun.

Too bad it won’t last.

 

* * *

 

“Do you do that often?”

Sherlock had been staring at John’s chair for a long while, so he’s startled by the sudden voice. He didn’t hear her approaching and that’s just unusual- although he pretends otherwise, even when deep in his Mind Palace he’s always aware of his surroundings. After the… _issue_ with Moriarty he’d been even more careful about this, since even the slightest distraction could have costed him dearly.

He guesses it goes showing how _affected_ he is by this whole situation.

Mary sits at what used to be John’s chair, brought back into the living room at the doctor’s request. The place is indeed a bit cramped with the crib and the chair, but it certainly feels more… home-y.

Sherlock bites back his demand for her to move. That’s John’s chair and having anyone other than him sitting there feels wrong. He looks at Mary dispassionately, arching an eyebrow as if he doesn’t understand her question.

She shakes her head, a sly smile on her lips. She runs her hands down the armchairs and Sherlock tenses further. He knows his reaction is completely irrational, but he can’t help himself.

“Did you actually like the clothes?” Mary asks after a beat, almost _friendly_ but there’s an edge underneath.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies simply, shrugging. “I’ve already put them away in the closet.”

Mary nods. The silence is tense between them, but they both do their best to ignore it. Seeing John as often as he does, as if nothing has truly changed, is all sorts of crazy but this weird… _thing_ he does with Mary is probably even worse.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” Mary asks, looking directly at him and he frowns. “With Janine, I mean,” she clarifies and Sherlock looks away, refusing to answer. He wonders what Mary knows, what she deduces and what she makes of it.

“I like her,” he murmurs after a while, toying with the hem of his loose shirt. “She’s- I’ve found  talking about… _failed_ relationships is very cathartic.”

Mary snorts. “Dear Janine is an expert on those,” she murmurs, not unkindly. “But what are you really doing?”

Sherlock looks at her and their eyes lock for what feels like an eternity. Finally she looks away, shaking her head. “Be careful,” she suggests and Sherlock nods. They sit in silence for a few more minutes; it’s not exactly companionable, but it’s not uncomfortable either.

“Do you ever-” Mary begins, interrupting herself abruptly by biting her lip. Sherlock just stares at her patiently, waiting for her to continue. “The Fall,” she says finally and Sherlock sits up straighter. “Do you regret it?”

Sherlock considers this for a beat, softly caressing his belly when the baby starts kicking as if sensing his uncomfortableness with the subject. “I had to do it,” he replies finally. “I’d do it again.”

Mary nods thoughtfully. “But you lied to everyone you care about. Would you do that again too?” Sherlock pursues his lips but nods tightly. “Would you lie to John again?” Another tight nod. “To protect him?”

“What’s your point?” he asks sharply, with more bite than he intended. Mary doesn’t reply, but continues watching him in silence, as if evaluating his reactions. It’s unnerving in all honesty and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Do you think sometimes- just sometimes- a lie is preferable than the truth?”

He frowns questioningly and Mary shakes her head before standing up and heading towards the door once more. “Nevermind me. I just remembered- I need to get going.”

And with that she’s gone, before Sherlock can utter a single word or even think of something to say.

What the hell was that about?

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stands by the stairs that lead to what used to be John’s bedroom, staring upwards, absentmindedly caressing his swollen abdomen. He thinks he should turn the room into a nursery at some point, but he hasn’t been able to convince himself of stepping into it ever since he came back to Baker Street, so he’s not convinced it’s a particularly good idea.

He sighs, looking around the reformed living room. It seems functional enough, but it’s certainly not a long term arrangement. He could always move out, he supposes, attempt to start anew somewhere else. It’d probably be the most healthy thing to do too, but-

He hears someone climbing up the stairs and he recognizes the steps right away. He closes his eyes briefly, his brother’s words resonating inside his head. _Why must you insist on torturing yourself like this?_ Mycroft’s voice demands angrily and Sherlock sighs, turning around slowly so he’s facing the door when John finally comes into sight.

He doesn’t know.

But as his _friend_ comes closer, smiling at him, he thinks he does.

It’s because the other option is far more hurtful.

 

* * *

“It’s ridiculous!” John is saying as they make their way towards Magnussen’s office. “Sherlock, listen to me. In your state-”

“Oh, please,” the younger man says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I’m just looking for the letters. Janine will let me in, Magnussen won’t even be there and we-”

“How do you know she’ll let you in? She probably has very strict instructions against that. I mean, with all the security-”

Sherlock groans loudly. “God, if I had known you were going to be this difficult, I wouldn’t have invited you to come along.” John glares and Sherlock smirks briefly. In all honesty he can’t imagine doing this without John by his side: he’s not expecting any trouble to arise, but if it does, he knows he can count on John to keep him (and their baby) safe. “Now, stand there,” he says, gesturing for him to step away. “And watch.”

John still looks far from pleased, but he complies. He knows bits and pieces of Sherlock’s case and what exactly is he after, but Sherlock has been careful to keep the most… disturbing pieces of information from him. He has enough with Mycroft trying to stop him; he doesn’t need John to attempt the same. He’s well aware Magnussen is dangerous and not exactly sane, but-

He has dealt with worst, he supposes.

“Sherlock!” Janine exclaims, her face showing up at the screen, looking surprised but pleased. “What are your doing here?”

Sherlock smiles to himself thinking it’s going well enough. “I brought you something,” he says, lifting up the small supermarket bag he’s carrying and showing the girl its contents. “I found our earlier conversation very… cathartic and I thought-”

“Is that ice cream?” Janine asks, now sounding even more pleased. “Oh, Sherlock. You know exactly how to woo a girl.” Sherlock grins and the girl laughs. “I can’t, though,” she says, biting her lip as if she’s seriously regretting it. “I really can’t.”

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock insist, putting on his most charming smile. “Don’t want to know about the boy from the bookshop?”

“What- Oh god. How do you even know that?!” she demands, laughter in her eyes. Sherlock smiles.

“Let me up and I’ll tell you,” he offers and Janine laughs once more, delighted. The light on the elevator turns blue and Sherlock smiles, gesturing for John to get on the elevator and following after. John is shaking his head, half amused, half concerned.

“You really have a gift,” he says as the doors close and Sherlock shrugs.

“It’s useful.”

“She’s not going to be pleased when she sees what you’re really up to.”

Sherlock considers this. “Perhaps not. But I’ll figure something out, worry not.”

John is about to respond when the doors open once more. The room is in complete darkness and Sherlock frowns. Next to him he can feel John tensing, immediately going into protective mood and moving in front of him. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically and pushes past him, looking around the entirely too quiet room.

They find Janine quickly enough, lying unconscious on the floor. John kneels next to her immediately, checking for vitals and Sherlock figures she’s in good hands, so he makes his way towards the other room. “Sherlock!” John hisses, evidently frustrated with what he perceives as lack of self preservation, but the younger man ignores him.

He has never been one to let danger get in the way of his curiosity.

There’s an unconscious guard in the next room and he lets John know as much, urging him to stay with Janine. He can hear the girl’s mumbled words now, so he supposes she’s fine and so he continues his path, growing more and more wary with each passing second. He makes it upstairs; there’s someone up there, he can hear their muffled voices and while worried, he doesn’t stop, ignoring once more John’s calls and so sealing their destiny.

What he finds awaiting for him inside Magnussen’s flat is something he can’t say he ever expected.

 

* * *

 

He and Mary stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, both obviously weightening their options. Sherlock places a hand protectively over his belly on instinct, not quite aware of having done so. Mary’s eyes follow the movement,  her gaze hardening and for the first time in the night, Sherlock is truly scared.

She wouldn’t shoot him, would she? Not when- even if-

“Is John here?” Mary asks quietly, deadly calm and raises her gun when Sherlock attempts to step back. He raises one hand in surrender, the other one still wrapped around his abdomen. His heart is beating very loudly, pumping adrenaline in his veins and he thinks he could try to make a dash for the door, but he doesn’t dare to risk it. “Is John here?!” Mary repeats, louder this time and Sherlock bites his lip nervously.

“Yes,” he replies slowly, “he’s downstairs.”

Mary’s grip on the gun falters for a second and Sherlock wonders what he can say to stop this situation from spiraling out of control. “I could shoot you,” Mary says after a beat, lips trembling very lightly. “I should.”

“Mary,” he pleads, tone still conciliating despite his growing fear. “Please. Whatever he has on you- let me help.” From the corner of his eye he catches sight of Magnussen reaching for something, but he keeps his focus on Mary, who still has the gun trained on him. “Mary-” he tries reaching for her, hoping-

“Don’t move,” she warns darkly, her face completely closed off. “You take another step and I swear I’ll shoot you, baby or not.”

Sherlock nods, dropping his hands to his sides. He’s not convinced she won’t shoot him; she has every reason to, after all. He has found her secret now and he’s carrying her husband’s baby and if John found out-

“My offer still stands,” he says, holding her stare. “And so does my promise.”

Mary scoffs. “Why would you?” she questions, stepping closer to him and Sherlock can’t help shivering when he feels the gun pressed against his chest. “Why would you?” she repeats, tilting her head to the side, looking honestly curious.

“Because I made a vow,” he replies slowly. “So did you, for that matter,” he adds on a whim and regrets it a second later when Mary’s eyes harden further, her gun now pressing against the top of his abdomen.

“We sometimes lie to the people we love, Sherlock. To protect them.” Her smile is cold as ice and Sherlock wants to step back, but he’s frozen on the spot, dread filling his veins. “Don’t we?”

He doesn’t think it’s quite the same but he won’t say such thing aloud. Mary’s gun is now pressed against his belly button and even if he survived the shoot- “Please,” he begs, eyes brimmed with tears and Mary blinks, as if confused by the amount of emotion he’s showing. Sherlock doesn’t particularly care, all he cares about right now is keeping his baby safe. He obviously miscalculated and now-

She removes her gun and Sherlock finds himself breathing easier. He opens his mouth to speak and gets interrupted by the loud wail of the alarm going off.

There’s a loud _bang_ and Sherlock is vaguely aware of the pain piercing through his shoulder. Mary’s eyes are open very wide, her mouth forming a perfect O. He’s distantly aware of John’s shout from downstairs and Mary turns to look at the stairs fearfully, body shaking.

His own words haunt him as he clutches his injured shoulder, his blood slipping through his fingers. _Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, for both of you._

“Go,” he orders Mary, who turns her attention back to him. She looks puzzled for beat, but doesn’t have the time to think things through since they both can hear John coming closer and closer. She sends one last panicked glance in his direction, before rushing out the room through the other door.

Sherlock stares at her retreating back, wondering what has he done and what is he going to do now. He catches sight of Magnussen then, who is smirking madly at him. “My, my Ms. Holmes. This is quite a conundrum, don’t you think?”

John storms into the room right then, dropping himself at Sherlock’s side when he notices the blood. He’s yelling something, but Sherlock can’t quite make sense of the words. He’s in pain, yes, but he doesn’t think it’s nowhere near fatal.

The choices he makes from this point onward however, will have deadly consequences.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I finished the chapter last night, but I felt it was a bit chopped. Since we know what happens in canon, I was skipping a few things, but I added a couple of scenes and now I’m happy with the result. It still think it doesn’t flow that well, but it works.
> 
>  
> 
> As I said before, I never particularly cared for Mary, but in the aftermath of S4 I have come to enjoy writing her. Since canon is just weird, one can practically make up anything about her personality. That being said, one of the things that bothered me about T6T is how   
> __  
> friendly  
>   
>  she and Sherlock were. I don’t believe you can be that   
> __  
> chummy  
>   
>  with someone that shot you in cold blood (which she did in canon) so I wanted to play with that. Besides, given the fic’s particular   
> __  
> circumstance  
>   
>  s, I think it’d be impossible for John to go back to her if she had shot Sherlock as she does in canon and she wasn’t pregnant (I’m going to have enough trouble explaining his reasoning as it is), not to mention her shooting Sherlock could have had more deathly consequences. Also, I didn’t want to write a straight up villain Mary, since that would have made the resolution entirely too easy.
> 
>  
> 
> Yeah, I know, my head and my reasonings are a mess :P
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! Pretty please let me know what you thought? Thanks for reading! 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! That was fast, wasn’t it?  
> I’m happy with this chapter, although I should warn you I change POVs a little too much, I hope that works well?  
> Enjoy!

Mary paces around the flat, glancing at her phone every few minutes or so. A part of her is urging her to run; grab her things, take the next flight to somewhere far far away and never look back. She has done it before, she could disappear without leaving any track of her existence.

So why hasn’t she?

She glances at her phone for the millionth time and bites her lip. There’s still no call from John, but she supposes that’s normal. The wound was nowhere near fatal, but she knows her husband will refuse to leave Sherlock’s side anyway, not until he’s completely certain he’s fine. Until then, he won’t even remember he has a wife that’s _ dutifully _ waiting for him at home, probably deadly worried about his whereabouts.

She scoffs, thinking she really should run now, while she still can. There’s nothing left for her here anyway, there’s absolutely no point-

She groans, frustrated with herself. She thinks she should have shot Sherlock in the heart: it certainly would have made things far easier. With him gone, the two secrets that could put an end to her marriage would have been buried forever (as soon as she dealt with Magnussen, of course). By all means, she should have taken her chance when she had it.

Then why hadn’t she?

In her former line of work, she had learned there’s always collateral damage. She tried to keep her jobs as clean as possible, but sometimes it was inevitable that other people got hurt: a bypassing neighbor, an innocent bystander, a significant other. Children. Babies.

Why is Sherlock’s baby any different?

The answer is, of course, because it’s not only Sherlock’s. It’s John’s too, even if her husband doesn’t know it. And Mary, for some ridiculous,  _ sentimental _ reason can’t bring herself to damage something that it’s partly John.

She scoffs. She’s getting sentimental in her old age.

She continues pacing around, feeling the walls closing upon her. What should she do now? She has no way to know if Sherlock will really uphold his promise: he said he’d help and so she assumes that means he won’t tell John about what happened in Magnussen’s flat. He said his promise still stood, so that means he still won’t tell John the baby is his. But can she trust him to keep his word? Why would he, when he has so much to gain from telling the truth and so much to lose if he continues keeping secrets? She knows that if the situation was reversed-

But then, Sherlock isn’t like her and that, she supposes, is what makes John love him as he does, even if he’ll never acknowledge it.

Why is she still waiting? She shouldn’t. There’s no point. Even if Sherlock helps, even if he keeps the secret, she’ll always know that if John knew the option existed, he would pick Sherlock in a heartbeat.

That prompts a slightly hysterical laughter out of her. All those years of guarding her heart, of being careful of not getting overly involved, of remaining detached and cold hearted… and yet here she is. With a one-sided love, even if her dear husband doesn’t know it.

Why is she still waiting? When did she become this stupid, this  _ pathetic _ ? Why is she still here?

Her phone rings and it startles her, making her nearly drop it. She glances at the light up screen, where John’s number is clearly visible. She closes her eyes and brings the phone to her ear, readying herself for whatever is to come.

She has made her choices.

She’ll have to stand by them.

* * *

 

John has stepped out of the room for a little while, after making sure both Sherlock and the baby are perfectly fine. Funny how despite  _ everything  _ he still acts as if he’s Sherlock’s family and it’s his right to stand with him while injured, and demand answers from the doctors.

Mycroft shakes his head. He’s probably just feeling bitter; after all he wasn’t allowed to see his brother until the doctors were done with him, all the while John had been allowed to stay with him. He knows, of course, that Sherlock would much rather have John with him while injured, but it still stings. He’s his brother after all and hasn’t he been there even when Dr. Watson was too busy playing family with his  _ wife  _ to care about Sherlock?

Bitterness is so unbecoming, really.

He and Sherlock remain in perfect silence, Sherlock looking pained and tired. There wasn’t much the doctors could give him for the pain given his state and while the wound wasn’t anywhere near life threatening, there were still a lot of interventions that needed to take place. He doubts his brother is in any mood to interact with the outside world, but he’s going to have to, sooner or later, since there are a few things they need to discuss.

Namely, the identity of his shooter.

He wouldn’t say his relationship with Dr. Watson is  _ bad  _ per se; it’s certainly cordial and over the years they developed a  _ working  _ relationship in terms of keeping Sherlock out of too much trouble. It’s not quite as good as the one he has with Inspector Lestrade, who’s certainly more cooperative than the doctor, but it had worked well enough until Sherlock’s  _ Fall  _ and later John’s marriage. That being said, he wouldn’t say they’re  _ friends,  _ not by far and therefore he doesn’t feel even a tiny bit guilty about keeping secrets from the man.

Namely, the fact that his wife was the one who shoot Sherlock.

He needs to know what is his brother planning to do with that bit of information, since he has been quite adamant in his declarations that he didn’t see the person who shoot him. Mycroft knows better and despite Mrs. Watson frankly worrisome ability to leave no track of her presence in Magnussen’s flat, the man himself hadn’t had any qualms on sending the information to him, although he had also kept it from the police. It’s evident there’s something far bigger going on and so Mycroft is determined to learn what exactly that is, before he considers any further moves.

There’s a knock on the door and Inspector Lestrade slides in quietly, taking a seat next to Mycroft. Technically he wouldn’t have needed to get involved in a breaking and entering case, even if it ended up in a shooting, but considering Sherlock had been involved, he had offered to help. He has already taken Sherlock’s statement, but just as Mycroft, he knows there’s something Sherlock isn’t telling them and now might be the best time to question him, while Dr. Watson is away.

Sherlock spares a quick glance in their direction, before stubbornly turning away. Mycroft and Lestrade share a grim look, before the Inspector asks softly. “What really happened there, Sherlock?”

The younger man doesn’t answer and Mycroft sighs, figuring he might as well reveal his cards and hope Sherlock will be more willing to talk after that. “Are you going to tell Dr. Watson?” he asks lightly, making his brother turn to look at him right away and earning himself a confused look from the man sitting next to him. “That his wife shoot you, that is,” he clarifies.

“What?” Lestrade demands and Mycroft offers him a tight smile. Sherlock glares, but doesn’t answer and the Inspector rubs a hand over his face, evidently annoyed with his stubbornness. “Sherlock, this isn’t the sort of thing you can keep to yourself. Why- How exactly did Mary-?”

“It was an accident,” Sherlock interrupts, making Mycroft scoff. “Magnussen was blackmailing her, so she was there to…  _ discuss  _ things with him. I walked in, she knew John must have been with me, Magnussen activated the alarm, she panicked. Really, it was all an accident.”

“Goddess,” Lestrade murmurs quietly, sinking into his seat. “Why was he blackmailing her?”

“I assume it has something to do with her secret past as a mercenary,” Mycroft replies airily, earning himself a glare from his baby brother. He stares back dispassionately, one eyebrow arched.

Lestrade looks between the brothers, probably trying to decide whether he’s being serious or not. Mycroft doesn’t see why would he be joking about something so serious, but he supposes people can be pretty weird.

“Alright,” the Inspector says after a beat, rubbing his temples tiredly. “Alright. Have you told John-?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock interrupts sharply. “There’s no need for it.”

“No need-?” Lestrade begins and interrupts himself abruptly, clenching his jaw. “You can’t be serious. You’re simply… going to pretend this never happened?”

Sherlock shrugs. “What else is there to be done? I promised Mary I’d help with Magnussen and-”

“You’ll- Jesus christ, Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?!” Lestrade demands, standing up and pulling at his hair. “She shoot you and you’re still going to help her? All the while keeping the truth from John?”

Mycroft’s thoughts are pretty much in the same line, but he knows Sherlock isn’t going to listen to their reasonings. He’s quite convinced he knows better. “As I said, it was an accident-” he begins and Lestrade scoffs. “It was an accident,” he repeats darkly, crossing his arms over his chest and wincing at the pain of his shoulder. “I don’t want either of you getting involved. It’s fine, really.”

“You can’t be serious,” the Inspector says again and Mycroft sighs, thinking that yes, he’s deadly serious.

“I-”

The door opens and John peeks in, which effectively silences everyone in the room. The doctor must notice something is wrong and so he frowns, but Sherlock shakes his head once. Lestrade bites his lip, obviously torn about the whole _not_ _saying something_ and so Mycroft stands up, grabbing the man by the arm. “Perhaps it’d be better to leave Sherlock to rest for a while,” he says, tone perfectly cordial. “Watch over him, will you, Dr. Watson?”

The blond looks wary, but he nods, moving to the chair closest to Sherlock’s bed. Mycroft smiles tightly and pulls the Inspector out with him, figuring there’s much they should discuss now.

His brother has made a decision and they both know it’s of no use trying to get Sherlock to change his mind.

There’s nothing to do but wait and pray it won’t end in disaster.

* * *

 

“How are you so calm?” Greg asks once they have stepped out of the hospital and Mycroft has passed him a cigarette. “You’re never this calm when it comes to Sherlock’s well being.”

Mycroft takes a long drag from his cigarette, not answering right away, as if thinking carefully about his answer. “My brother is… he is not very inclined to think of his well being first. In his head, finding out about Mrs. Watson’s past would upset John greatly, which would make him unhappy. Since Sherlock has decided his sole goal in this life is to ensure the doctor’s happiness, he’s willing to let this so-called accident slide.”

“That’s…” Greg begins, looking for the right word to describe it. He knows Sherlock’s way of dealing with stuff is usually far from healthy, but this seems an exaggeration, even for him. “That’s crazy,” he finishes lamely, earning himself an unamused chuckle for the other man.

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees solemnly. “Sadly, there’s not way to change his mind. Had Mrs. Watson compromised his baby’s well being in any way, I’m inclined to think he wouldn’t be behaving this way, but since she spared them both, he seems to believe she’s as committed as himself to ensure John’s happiness. And maybe she is, of course; I wouldn’t presume to know the depth of her affections since Dr. Watson seems to have such an impact on even the more emotionally stunted people.”

Greg makes a face. “And so we simply… let it go?”

Mycroft considers this for a long while and Greg looks away, realizing he’s staring a little too intently. “I’ll keep a close eye on Mrs. Watson’s movements and increase my brother’s non-oficial security. I’m inclined to think she didn’t intend to shoot him, but better safe than sorry.”

“What makes you think that?”

The other man shrugs non committedly. “You and I know that the shoulder is not really the place to shoot someone you intend to kill. A professional would have aimed for the head or the heart perhaps. Or, if this was a crime of passion…” he trails off and Greg shivers.

“Right. Right, that’s- not reassuring at all, but it’s  _ something _ , I suppose.”

Mycroft’s lips curve upwards disdainfully and Greg sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t like this, not one bit. And I like keeping John in the dark even less.”

Mycroft shrugs once more, eyes fixed on something in the parking lot. Greg turns around just in time to watch Mary get out of the car and hurry towards the hospital doors. She pauses very briefly when she catches sight of them, but recovers quickly and continues her way, glancing warily at them as she makes her way past the doors. Mycroft pulls out his phone and sends a quick text, which makes Greg feel oddly comforted.

“I don’t like it either, Inspector,” Mycroft tells him calmly. “But there’s nothing else for us to do.”

Greg thinks there are actually several things they could do, but Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate any of them. And since the madman is incapable of thinking of his own self, it’s up to Greg and Mycroft to look after him and that’s infinitely more complicated when he’s pissed at either of them.

“Right then,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “Should we go back?”

Mycroft glances at his watch and seems to think about it for a couple of seconds. “Give them a few minutes,” he says and Greg frowns. “Mrs. Watson and him have much to discuss.”

Greg sighs once more.

Just what exactly have they gotten themselves into?

* * *

 

 

“You need to rest,” Mary pleads gently, tone sympathetic. John shakes his head, attempting to shake off his tiredness, but it’s a lost battle. He has had a hellish night and he can’t stay awake another minute.

“I don’t want to leave him alone.”

Mary smiles softly, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “He’s not alone. Mycroft and Greg are here too.” John shakes his head once more, a yawn escaping him and Mary caress his cheek gently. “I’ll stay with him. Will that make you feel better?”

No, not really. There’s something urging him not to leave Sherlock’s side, but that might be just paranoia. His friend is doing fine, the doctors say neither he nor the baby are in danger and so John should-

And Mary is right, of course. It’s not like he’s leaving him completely alone; it’s not like-

“Come on,” Mary urges him, helping him to stand up. “Go home. I’ll stay. And I’ll call if anything changes.”

John nods tightly, before peeking into Sherlock’s room. The consulting detective is fast asleep and John smiles briefly, “I’ll come back in a bit,” he informs him, although he knows Sherlock isn’t listening. “Mary is here and your brother and Greg are just outside so... you’re in good hands.”

He closes the door as softly as he can and Mary offers him a loving smile, before pulling him into a hug. “It’ll be fine, John. Just get some rest.” He nods and kisses her quickly before heading towards the hospital exit. He spares a last glance in Mary’s direction and watches her enter Sherlock’s room, which makes the alarms inside his head go wild.

But he shakes his head once more and tells himself he’s just tired.

After all, it’s not like Mary could possibly hurt Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts anyone?  
> I had considered doing this whole chapter from Mary’s POV, but I felt it didn’t really work since there were a lot of scenes missing. Also, in the original draft, Greg was the one taking the things a bit more calmly while Mycroft freaked out but well… as I wrote, they refused to behave as I wanted them, although I think it does work better.  
> Also, Mary’s POV kept going on a murder-y direction and I finally let her do as she pleased, since she refused to play nice :P  
> I did do my research on bullet wounds, but I ended up scratching out the whole medical part. I just didn’t like how forced it felt and well… hopefully it works somewhat?  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I think it’s a little on the short side, but well… technically this could have gone with the previous one, but then it would have been too long and it seemed like it could work better like this.  
> I hope you’ll like it!

There’s no light in the room except from the one coming from the various machines keeping track of Sherlock’s vitals. Mary’s eyes sweep around the room, her mind coming up with various escape routes and alibis on automatic. Of course John himself has just seen her walking in, but if she’s very careful about it-

“Is John gone?” Mary turns back to the supposedly asleep man. Sherlock is peering at her through half lidded eyes, the pain he’s in and his tiredness showing. Mary thinks she definitely has the upperhand here, if only-

“Yes,” she replies calmly, taking a seat on the chair next to the bed. She crosses her legs, back perfectly straight, ready to spring into action if the need arises. “You really didn’t tell him,” she says, tone flat.

“I said I wouldn’t,” Sherlock argues back calmly, attempting to sit up. It’s difficult and it pains him, it’s easy to see, but Mary doesn’t move one inch to help. With just the two of them, there’s no need to pretend any compassion she doesn’t really feel. “Do you still not trust my word?”

Mary considers this very seriously. “For a long time I was in a line of work you couldn’t trust anyone. Habits die hard.” Sherlock nods, but it’s hard to tell if he really believes her. It’s not a lie, not completely, but that’s not the only reason she doesn’t trust his word.

“What exactly involved this line of work of yours?”

“I’m not about to tell you my life story,” she replies flippantly and Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “I did… some very  _ questionable  _ things. But I left that life behind. I do not wish to dwell or go back to it.” Another lie, but it has some truth in it- she does miss that life and sometimes she thinks of going back, but she has her reasons to stay.

Or rather, she has someone to stay for. The question is whether he'd like her to stay if he finds out the truth or not .

Sherlock stares at her for a long while, measuring her words. She hates the way his intense scrutiny makes her skin crawl, but she endures as long as she can. “What you need to understand,” she says after a few minutes, when Sherlock still keeps his silence. “Is that I love John and I’d do anything to keep this from him. I just- he wouldn’t-  _ I can’t tell him the truth. _ ”

She hates the way her voice cracks at the last sentence and she bites her lip harshly, turning away. She never intended to make herself this vulnerable; it’s plain crazy to allow someone have this much power over her and yet-

“I understand,” Sherlock says finally, eyes fixed intently on his hands linked over his abdomen. “I- I understand.”

She doesn’t think he really does, but she’s willing to play along. They and their reasons for doing certain things are not remotely similar (although they’re based on the same sentiment, she supposes) but Sherlock doesn’t need to know that. Let him believe whatever he needs to believe in order for her to get what she needs.

“So you will help me?” she asks, leaning closer, grabbing one of his hands and startling him. “And will you keep the secret?”

Sherlock stares a little longer and then, very slowly, nods.

Mary smiles.

* * *

 

“It’s plain madness,” Mycroft sentences darkly, standing by the window, looming like shadow. Sherlock takes a sip from his water and doesn’t answer, staring straight ahead and pretending he’s not actually listening to him.

“A good marriage isn’t based on  _ lies, _ ” he hisses angrily, losing his temper just a little and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“As if you’d know about that.”

A deep breath, as he tries to regain his control. “Not from first hand experience,” he concedes, coming to stand in front of his brother once more. “The truth, Sherlock,  _ always  _ comes to light. You, of all people, should know that.”

“If that’s such an universal truth, why do you find the idea of lying to me such an appealing one? If you know I’m going to find out the truth sooner or later, why lie to me in the first place?”

He has him there. Mycroft purses his lips, looking away before answering exactly what Sherlock expects. “Because I’m trying to protect you. Because I care.” Sherlock’s lips curve upwards amusedly and Mycroft sighs. “But surely you know John won’t appreciate it. Surely you understand what you stand to lose by helping the woman who’s deliberately lying to him. Who has been lying to him since the moment they met, actually.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, as if steadying himself for an awful confession. “The woman he chose.”

“The woman he chose doesn’t exists,” Mycroft protests. “That’s not the woman he  _ loves. _ ”

Sherlock flinches, his grip on the water cup tightening. “She makes him happy. She can give him everything I never could.”

“And what exactly is that?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, instead choosing to stare at his cup as if it held all the answers in the world. “You love him, Sherlock,” Mycroft insists, even though he knows it’s a lost battle.

“I do,” his brother agrees, voice small and pained. “But he didn’t choose me.”

Mycroft wonders if there’s a way to make him understand that John didn’t choose him because he didn’t even know he was an option. Also, he doesn’t think Sherlock has ever actually believed himself  _ worthy  _ of the doctor, even if that’s a bunch of nonsense in Mycroft’s opinion.

And he’s not biased just because he’s his little brother.

“So you think this is better for him; to continue believing this lie.” Sherlock bites his lip, expression haunted, but he nods. “You think he’ll be better off like this.”

“Mary is very good,” Sherlock says, looking at him for the first time in their conversation. “We’ll pull this off.”

Yes, Mycroft thinks they might.

That’s exactly what he’s worried about.

* * *

 

The press backslash is exactly as awful as Sherlock expected. He glances at the various tabloids spread across his bed disdainfully, wondering not for the first time why people seem to enjoy this crap so bloody much.

“On the plus side,” Janine is saying, attempting to sound cheerful and failing miserably. “None of these are run by my boss, so he isn’t making any money out of your little secret being discovered.”

Sherlock’s smile is as a far from amused as they come. “Oh, cheer up! At least they’re too busy wondering about who’s your baby’s father to focus on the  _ other thing, _ ” she says, her smile looking a bit pained now. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

He supposes it is, even if just marginally. “They’ll come back to it later,” he says, caressing his swollen belly as he feels the baby move. “When they’re done speculating about my child’s parentage, that is.”

Janine makes a face, looking honestly displeased. “I’m very sorry, Sherlock. I… if there’s anything I can do for you…” she trails off, waving a hand vaguely and Sherlock wonders how she still finds it within herself to want to help after learning he only befriended her to get into Magnussen’s office. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, attempting to smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I just- it’ll die out with time. You know how this gossip business is.”

Janine smiles a bit self deprecatingly and nods, leaning down to press a quick kiss against the top of his head before heading for the door, waving goodbye. Sherlock waves back, a sad smile on his lips.

He turns his attention back to the tabloids, nose scrunched in displeasure. He knew this was bound to happen sooner or later, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping it wouldn’t happen at all.

Ah, the perks of being a so-called  _ celebrity. _

He leans back on the bed, linking his fingers beneath his chin. He has bigger things to focus on, of course, but this whole affair is annoying anyway and it makes it hard to concentrate when you keep going back to the odious articles and their senseless speculations.

And even worse their not so senseless ones, like those claiming John is his baby’s father.

Now that could be problematic.

* * *

 

Greg squeezes the bridge of his nose in an effort to fight off his incoming headache, but he has little success. He had had a fairly relaxed week, right until he got the call from Mycroft informing him of Sherlock’s latest… stunt. The man has never had any reward for his own safety, but after the last run in with a criminal that had ended up with yet another trip to the hospital and Dr. Wales very stern talk, he had thought he would indeed be more careful.

Of course, technically, there was no actual danger involved in his plan. At worst he would have been brought in for breaking and entering and it’s not like Mycroft would actually let those charges proceed. It’s not like any of them could have imagined just which cards Magnussen had under his sleeve, nor the skeletons Mrs. Watson was hiding in her closet.

And that last bit of information is far more troublesome than anything else. He has seen far too many crimes of passion and he’s not eager to add Sherlock to that particular list. In his opinion, the fact that Mary refrained from shooting Sherlock somewhere where it could actually have proved deadly is more sheer luck than a deliberate move. If going back in time was possible, he doubts Mary would think twice of replaying the scene to ensure Sherlock’s silence.

It’s all very dangerous and if they’re not careful-

He wants to think both Sherlock and Mycroft know what they’re doing, but they both have a tendency to underestimate (or overestimate) people. He knows he’ll have to keep his eyes wide open if he’s hoping to stop things from spiraling out of control.

It’s really easier said than done.

He leans back on his seat, carefully considering his next move. He really, really wants to tell John the truth, if only because he knows the doctor will be better at protecting Sherlock than any of them. But he also knows John is unlikely to take the news well and he’ll be more than a little upset at having been lied  _ again  _ so maybe-

And if he does tell John the truth, he knows Sherlock won’t ever forgive him. And that just won’t end well; whether he admits it or not, Sherlock needs all the love and support he can get and it’s just not a good idea to make him feel like he can’t trust no one, particularly not now.

But then, what is he supposed to do now?

He’s afraid there’s no right answer at all.

* * *

 

The doorbell ringing startles John out of his dark musings. He thinks he should have stayed at the hospital with Sherlock last night; it’s not like he got any sleep when he made it back home. Now he’s feeling just as tired and twice as guilty.

He should have known better than to indulge his friend in his crazy plans. Chasing after criminals it’s not an activity for someone six months pregnant, no matter what Sherlock seems to believe. He would be feeling agitated even if Sherlock wasn’t pregnant, but considering the circumstances, he feels like he should have done something more. Like following him around during their stalk in Magnussen’s office.

The doorbell rings once more and he eyes his coffee distastefully. He doesn’t want to answer the door, although he’s not quite sure why. He doesn’t think it can possibly be important; if something had happened someone would have called him already. And all things considered, he believes it’s very likely he’ll start getting visits/calls from overeager so-called  _ reporters _ , so...

God, how he hates this press business.

Another ring and he figures he can’t keep ignoring it forever. Or maybe he could, but he’s going to need to leave the apartment at some point and since he has already showered and dressed, he might as well head towards the hospital. With that thought in mind, he grabs his jacket and his keys, opening the door as the doorbell rings a fourth time.

Who he finds at the other side of the door is someone he didn’t expect at all.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson,” Magnussen greets pleasantly, a dark smile on his lips. John has the sudden urge to close the door in his face, but he supposes that wouldn’t be wise. The man had chosen not to file charges, but technically he and Sherlock could still get in trouble for breaking and entering. “May I come in?” he asks, when John just continues staring at him confusedly.

John hesitates. One doesn’t invite a snake into one’s home and the man’s presence can mean nothing but trouble, but he supposes he can handle him. In any case, it might be better that he chose to visit him, instead of going after Sherlock in the hospital.

He moves away to allow the man in and Magnussen smirks. His eyes sweep across the flat quickly, before calmly taking a seat at the living room. John sits in front of him, posture very tense, telling himself that whatever the man has planned, he can handle it.

And if he can, he’ll also keep Sherlock out of it.

“Against what you might be thinking, Dr. Watson, I’m not here to discuss your  _ friend. _ ” John frowns, not liking the man’s tone, not his smug smile. “No, the subject I wish to discuss with you is your darling wife. Tell me, where is Mrs. Watson in this fine day? Surely not at the hospital, is she?”

A cold shiver runs down John’s spine.

He can tell things are about to go to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> And plot thickens! I mean, you probably sort of knew where this was heading, but I like to think that I’m putting enough twists to make it enjoyable. The next few chapters are likely to be angst heavy and with a lot of character introspection, which I hope won’t make them boring.  
> I’m concerned about how their reasonings are coming across. I fear they feel a little out of nowhere and so the reactions don’t feel honest at all. They all have a lot of issues, self worth issues and well… it makes sense inside my head, but does it make sense to you? At all?  
> Pretty please let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m sorry about taking this long to update but well… life kept getting in the way. But I hope I’ll get back on track now ;)  
> Enjoy!

The familiar noise of someone rummaging around the flat makes Sherlock stop on his tracks and hold onto the stairs rail, suddenly feeling light headed. It seems like he’s been living on his own for an eternity and so the familiar noise of John’s steps-

But wait. He’s putting more of his weight on one leg and he’s stepping with a little too much strength, moving things around making more noise than needed. Sherlock looks up, frowning a little, wondering what could have happened. He received a text from John earlier, informing him he couldn’t pick him up at the hospital and he hadn’t think much about it, simply asking Mycroft for a ride. It had been all kind of weird being trapped inside the moving vehicle with his brother and Mary sending each other murdering glares and Lestrade pretending not to be doing the same, but that is now thankfully over.

Really, Lestrade and Mycroft play at being his substitute parents so often that they forget they’re not really. Besides, even if they were, this is a huge overreaction: he and Mary have talked. Everything is fine. They’ll figure this out.

But-

Mary is looking upwards too, a curious expression on her face. She looks at him briefly, one eyebrow raised, as if expecting him to know what’s going on with John now. His honest confusion seems to placate her somewhat and she continues her way upstairs, ignoring Sherlock’s soft grunts of pain. Of course there’s nothing she can do for him, so really-

Why does he feel the need to justify every one of Mary’s moves, even inside his own head? 

It’s fine, really. She made a mistake, she has apologised, he should be able to move on. It’s not a big deal. Sure, the woman his best friend and love of his life is married to has been lying to him and has now shot Sherlock, but it’s not like-

When he steps into the flat, he comes across an odd scene. John is standing at the living room, right next to what he calls  _ the client’s chair. _ His back is ramrod straight, eyes bright with suppressed fury. He clenches and unclenches his fists, jaw clenched tight.

This can’t be good.

Mary looks in his direction once more, wary now. Sherlock just blinks, for once in his life actually not knowing what’s going on and she pursues her lips, a dark look in her eyes. She then turns back to her husband and steps closer, coming to sit on the chair, eyes locked with John’s, chin held high.

John huffs, before going to sit on his own chair, a notebook ready at hand, as if he was taking notes for a regular case. Sherlock feels way out of his deep, but since his companions have turned to him expectantly, he has no other choice but to make it to his own seat. He ignores the way his shoulder protest at the movement and he can’t help to wince, noticing the way John’s eyes narrow immediately. He feels the urge to hug himself, but tells himself to stop being silly and focus on what’s going on.

“So,” John says, after what feels like a lifetime, picking up his pen. “Tell us your story,” he says placidly, turning to Mary and she raises her eyebrows, somewhere between amused and angry.

“Who told you?” she asks, perfectly calm, legs crossed primly, hands resting over her left knee. From his seat Sherlock can see for the first time the outline of a gun inside her coat and he wonders how did he miss it. Did Mycroft notice? Is that why he seemed so on edge during the whole trip?

He wonders briefly if there’s a security team ready to intervene if something was to go awry and then thinks darkly it doesn’t matter. They could never move fast enough to be of any use.

He places a hand over his abdomen and the move doesn’t go unnoticed by the other two people in the room, even if they both pretend to be focused on each other. “Magnussen,” John replies after a too long pause, making both Mary and Sherlock’s attention snap back to him. “We had a very nice chat this morning.”

Mary closes her eyes briefly, a flash of real emotion showing on her face before it turns back into a blank expression. “I see. Would I be right to assume this means you won’t be coming home tonight? What about tomorrow, or next week? Next month?”

“How can you-” John begins, before his voice breaks and Sherlock aches for the pain reflected in his friend’s tone. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Mary asks, quick as a snake and just with as much venom. “ Don’t you, really? You’re attracted to a very specific kind of person, John,” she says, leaning closer to him and John retreats, back pressed against the chair, as if attempting to escape her words. “Of course I am what I am. How would you have loved me otherwise?”

John glares, but doesn’t argue. His eyes flicker towards Sherlock quickly and the consulting detective isn’t sure what to make of the gesture, nor of the way his silly heart seems to flutter.

He looks away. Now is definitely not the time to be thinking stupid things.

A tense silence follows. Sherlock thinks this isn’t a conversation he should be getting himself involved into, but he feels like he needs to say something, although he has no clue what.

“Did you shoot Sherlock?” John asks after what feels like a lifetime and Mary clenches her jaw, her posture shifting minisculely. Sherlock doesn’t think she’s about to make a move, there’s nothing that really suggests so, but-

“It was an accident,” he interrupts, making John look in his direction, expression unbelieving. “She was going to put the gun away when Magnussen activated the alarm. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Mary is watching him funnily as if she can’t comprehend what is he doing. Which is silly, because he’s doing exactly what he said he’d do: help her.

John doesn’t seem to buy it. “Why would she do that?”

Mary herself doesn’t seem to know the answer to that, judging by the face she’s making. Which, again, is silly because the answer is very simple. “She might not be exactly who you thought she was, but she’s still the woman you chose, John. You wouldn’t be in love with someone who was that cruel.”

Mary blinks several times, eyes perhaps a tad misty. John clenches his jaw, eyes hardening when he turns back to his wife. “I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“John-” Mary and Sherlock say at the same time, but the doctor ignores them both as he makes his way to his old room, limping all the way. Sherlock bites his lip thinking this couldn’t go any worse and then he hears Mary collapsing back onto the chair, a small awful noise escaping her.

Oh, crap. This isn’t going to work. “I’ll talk to him,” he promises quietly, attempting to stand up so he can try to console the crying woman.

Mary lets out a bitter laugh, a hand going to the inside of her coat and Sherlock forces himself to stand up, ignoring the way his shoulder is screaming in pain. Oh god, oh god- “Do you honestly think he’s ever going to forgive me?”

“He will,” he assures her, because it’s the truth and also seems like the best thing to say. “He loves you- of course he’ll forgive you. He just…” he waves a hand vaguely, looking frenetically around the room for anything that he could use to defend himself if it came down to it. “I’ll talk to him,” he repeats, tone solemn, locking eyes with her, figuring that it might be the best tactic he can try.

Mary watches him in silence, expression unreadable. Finally she nods and stands back up, heading towards the door. Sherlock realizes he’s breathing normally once more and he curses himself for reacting so irrationally.

She turns one last time once she’s at the door, looking like she’s about to say something, but seems to think better of it and walks downstairs without uttering another word. Sherlock sits down, placing a hand over his chest, trying to calm his wildly beating heart.

God, what the hell is wrong with him?

* * *

 

“So you’re going to talk to me? Really?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, entertaining himself with finishing making a sandwich, which is proving to be quite a challenge with just one completely functional arm. Normally he wouldn’t even bother, but he’s hungry (again) and he figured it was better if he kept himself entertained to avoid thinking about what happened a few hours earlier.

“So what? Am I simply supposed to pretend none of this happened? That everything is perfectly fine? Everything is most definitely not fine, Sherlock! God, can’t you see how messed up this whole situation is?”

Sherlock turns around slowly, taking a bite from the sandwich to buy himself some time, which seems to irritate John further. He chews slowly, mulling over the best course of action. “I understand the situation is far from ideal,” he says, putting the sandwich down, his eyes not quite meeting John’s. “I suppose it’s far from the domestic bliss you imagined when you married.”

John is glaring, he can tell and so he keeps his eyes fixed on the table. “But you love her, John. You chose her, after all.”

John makes a sound that Sherlock isn’t sure how to interpret and so he looks up. His friend is biting on his lip viciously, hard enough to make it bled and he wants to reach for the other man but tells himself that it probably isn’t wise. “I- I don’t know what I feel. The woman I married- that’s not her.”

“But she is,” Sherlock argues calmly. “John, we all have a past. Some of us darker than others but it’s the past. It shaped us and we can’t change it, but… it’s in the past.” He’s rubbing his arm absentmindedly and forces himself to stop when he notices. His nightgown covers his scars, but he can see them as clearly as if he wasn’t wearing anything and judging by the way John is staring at him, so does he.

“It’s not quite the same,” John argues softly, one hand coming to hold Sherlock’s wrist, slowly pulling the sleeve upwards, baring his arm so he can trace the light scars. “And she lied to me about it. I understand what you’re saying, but she never even told me-”

“Do you think I would have?” Sherlock asks after a beat, pulling his arm away. “If Lestrade hadn’t been at the flat that first night-”

“Well, yes, but I would have noticed eventually,” John argues reasonably. “As with the other thing.”

Sherlock makes a face, thinking of the first time he had gotten himself stabbed on the arm and John had taken off his shirt to look at the injury. He had been surprised, but hadn’t said a thing and he never actually brought the subject up, for what Sherlock was eternally grateful.

“Well… you’d have noticed Mary’s skill with a gun if the need ever arised,” he says, feeling oddly nervous. John huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I understand why you’re angry John, but you need to understand that she was just trying to protect you.”

_ And keep you,  _ he thinks, but doesn’t say.

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I keep asking myself how I missed it. It should have been somewhat obvious, shouldn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugs. Non necessarily; someone with Mary’s experience would know how to fool an experimented spy, not to mention a regular person, but he doesn’t think pointing it out would be beneficial. In any case, he thinks  _ he _ should have noticed, but he supposes he was too blinded by sentiment: he just wanted to see John happy and if Mary could do that-

“When you… after you…” John closes his eyes, overwhelmed with emotion and trying not to let it show. “When I met Mary I was in a very bad place. After the Fall, I just couldn’t- I kept thinking…” He trails off, eyes locked with Sherlock’s. “I hold onto her to survive. I was drifting and she kept me centered. After I lost you I thought I would never be happy again but she made me smile again. I think- I think I was so centered on my feelings and my despair that I never really  _ looked.  _ Nothing really mattered but keeping your memory at bay.”

Sherlock just stares, at lost of what he could possibly say. His heart is constricting painfully inside his chest and he longs to tell John just how horrid those two years were for him too: of how he missed him and how the thought of seeing him again was the only thing that kept him going.

But then, this isn’t about him or even about them. “I think you should talk to her,” he murmurs quietly, ignoring the way every nerve in his body seems to rebel at the idea. He just wants John to be happy and he knows that, despite everything, he can not be the one to make him happy.

John observes him in silence, eyes infinitely sad, a hand half reaching for him before he drops it to his side, looking away. “Perhaps. But not now. I can’t see past her lies right now and the fact she hurt you, whether or not it was her intention,” he adds sharply, when Sherlock opens his mouth to protest.

“Fair enough,” Sherlock agrees softly, picking up his sandwich once more. His body is hungry, even if his mind couldn’t care less. He takes a bite, chewing slowly, swallowing painfully due the dryness of his throat. He thinks he’s being ridiculous and overly emotional and now isn’t the time-

“This is so weird,” John comments, tone light, obviously aiming to change the subject. Sherlock arches an eyebrow, taking another bite and John chuckles good naturedly. “Watching you eat while we’re discussing something serious. You normally would be… I don’t know, playing your violin or sulking at the couch since you can’t play now, I suppose…”

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder and continues eating slowly. “I’m hungry,” he declares simply and John chuckles once more, which makes Sherlock smile in turn.

“Something I never thought I’d actually hear you say.” His tone is light and fond and Sherlock smiles back at him, feeling giddy. Funny the efect John has on him, even in small doses.

“I feel self conscious enough of my new aspect without you commenting on my eating habits, John,” he says, half-playful, one hand caressing his swollen abdomen. “I’m big as a whale and eating as one, but you don’t need to tease me for it.”

John huffs amusedly, a bright smile on his lips. “Please. You look as gorgeous as ever. Perhaps even more so.”

Both freeze as the words register and John blushes bright red. Sherlock just blinks, feeling his cheeks burn as his heart starts doing somersaults inside his chest. He immediately chides himself, telling his silly heart he’s reading far too much into careless words, but it does nothing to quell its enthusiasm.

“I-” John begins, interrupting himself by biting on his lip. “I think I’m going to go for a walk. Clear my head and all that.” He turns around, evidently uncomfortable and Sherlock watches him pick up his jacket and hurry out of the flat, as if he was escaping something. The consulting detective sighs before turning his attention back to his half eaten sandwich, a frown on his face.

He’s not sure how he’s going to survive these next few days.

Not with his heart intact, that’s for sure.

* * *

 

He curls in bed as he usually does, cradling his belly lovingly, humming softly to himself. He longs for another weight on the bed, for someone’s arms wrapped around his body, for another set of hands caressing his belly in an attempt to soothe the baby to sleep, but he knows it’s an useless dream that will never come to pass.

John has yet to come back and he hates that a single phrase can manage to ruin their comfortable company. Although it’s probably for the best: he must not forget John’s presence back in Baker Street is temporary: he and Mary will soon sort things out and then he’ll be left on his own. Not for long though, he thinks as he caresses his belly once again. Soon there’ll be someone else living with him, someone who will depend entirely on him and who he’ll love just as unconditionally as he loves John. 

“Not that I think I’ll be any good at this parenting business,” he murmurs softly, speaking directly to his abdomen. “But I’ll do my best. I promise.” The baby kicks and that startles a chuckle out of him. “And we’ll have a lot of help, of course. Mrs. Hudson will probably pop up at any given chance and Lestrade promised he’ll stay the first month or so, while we settle down. And Mycroft will change your nappies,” he whispers conspiratorially. “He did plenty of that when I was a baby, I’ve been told.” The baby kicks again, as if in agreement and Sherlock chuckles once more, patting his belly affectionately. “And your other father- he’ll be around. And he’ll love you, even if he doesn’t know you’re his.” He smiles sadly, as the image of John holding their baby, oblivious to the fact, comes to his mind unbidden. “And maybe you’ll have siblings one day. Half-siblings, but well… it’ll be fine.” He closes his eyes as he feels tears attempting to escape his eyes. “We’ll be happy.  _ You’ll be happy.  _ I promise.”

Another kick and Sherlock can no longer hold back his tears. Stupid hormones, making a mess of his emotions. He’s fine, he really is, there’s no need for all this sentimentality. 

He hears the front door opening and John’s steps as he makes his way towards the living room. He’s limping once more and Sherlock sighs, thinking they need to work on that once again. He listens to John moving around, probably rearranging little things and his heart constricts at the memory of their early days, when life was so much more simple and he wasn’t quite aware of the depth of his feelings; when hearing John rummaging around the flat was a comfort rather than a constant reminder of what he has lost.

He becomes aware the steps have stopped right outside his bedroom and his breath catches. A small, silly,  _ treacherous  _ part of him is hoping this…  _ situation  _ with Mary will make John come back to him, will make him forget her, will make him stop loving her. 

But he knows better. And in any case, that’s not what he wants.

He wants John to choose him for him. Not for their baby, not because he can no longer trust Mary. Because he actually wants to stay with him.

Is it too much to ask?

John’s steps resonate around the all too empty flat as he leaves Sherlock’s door and heads for his old room. Sherlock becomes aware he has kept on crying and hurries to rub the tears away, willing himself to calm down.

What did he told The Woman? Ah, yes: sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

He laughs bitterly.

* * *

 

“You haven’t renovated my room,” John comments almost off handedly the next morning while they’re having breakfast and Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, eyes fixed on his food. “I thought- aren’t you going to turn it into a nursery?”

“At some point, perhaps,” Sherlock answers, still not looking up. “I’d rather keep him close at first. I don’t- it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Him?”

Oh. “Well, I don’t know yet. But…” he shrugs and John nods thoughtfully. They lapse into a companionable silence and Sherlock hates the way he aches inside, reminding himself this won’t last. 

“I hope I’m not intruding,” John says after a while, smiling tightly. “I know you’ve probably gotten used to being on your own and if you want me to-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts sharply, placing a hand over his friend’s, waiting until John makes eye contact with him. “You’ll always be welcome here. Always,” he repeats earnestly and he watches the way John gulps, evidently moved. He smiles a tad sadly and then turns his attention back to breakfast, refusing to acknowledge his rapid beating heart.

“Thank you,” his friend whispers softly, almost in an after thought and they go back to eating in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

Sherlock knows it won’t last.

Doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it while it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> There are quite a lot of scenes I want to happen while John is back living with Sherlock, but I think I’m going to need more chapters for them, in order for it not to look cramped.   
> I hope this is working out alright? I keep worrying this seems way far fetched and/or not logical at all; I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, pretty please? You have no idea how nervous the lack of comments is making me. Am I messing up big time?  
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! That was quick, wasn’t it? There were still a few things I wanted to add to this chapter, but I think it might work better with multiple POVs rather than just John’s and since I wanted this one to run solely from his… well.  
> Enjoy!

John thinks it should be a little bit worrying how easily they go back to their old domestic routine. It’s been almost 3 years since the last time they lived together, so it really shouldn’t be this easy to go back to the way things were.

And yet it is. There are a few changes and he thinks they both might be slightly wary of the other, always watching each other from the corner of their eyes, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels normal, it feels right: it feels like it was always meant to be.

Even at the beginning, they had never felt like two strangers living together. From the moment he stepped in, 221B Baker Street had been his home and he has come to realize it never stopped being: not after he moved out after Sherlock’s “death”, certainly not after he and Mary got their flat.

Home is where the heart is, indeed.

He looks at Sherlock, who’s busy preparing breakfast. As much as he liked to complain about his flatmate’s general disdain for food, he has to admit that that was never an uncommon occurrence. Sherlock might have rarely eaten, but he always made sure breakfast was ready when John had to leave early for work. Even when they argued, there was always at least fresh tea when John woke up.

This, he thinks, it’s what he always thought of when people said _domestic bliss._ Life with Mary hadn’t been unpleasant and in all truth it might not have been that different from his domestic life with Sherlock (except for the body parts, probably) but it never felt like this.

He rubs his temples tiredly. He knows he’s walking on thin ice; any slip now and he’ll hurry to the Courthouse to ask for an annulment. Which, in all fairness, is what any _reasonable_ person would do, after finding out their spouse _technically doesn’t even exist,_  but John supposes he’s never been very reasonable anyway. And a part of him does want to forgive Mary, if only because he’s not sure he can go back to living with Sherlock, keeping his feelings hidden.

Especially not now.

He hears Sherlock humming to himself, absent mindedly rubbing his belly from time to time. John finds himself wanting to go to his friend and wrap his arms around him, pull him close. It’s not the first time he has thought about that of course, but there’s something terribly appealing about the scene occurring in front of him that makes it harder to resist the impulse. Just as he said the other day, Sherlock looks even more attractive now, healthier and happier and John wishes-

Well. Better not to think about that.

* * *

 

A grunt of pain coming from the bathroom has John standing up immediately and hurrying in the direction of the noise. He has spent most of the morning watching telly, trying to figure out what is he going to do now, and Sherlock had been working on his laptop for a while, until he had complained about his aching shoulder. John then had said he was overworking himself, Sherlock had denied it and that had lead to a short but heated argument that had ended with Sherlock storming into his bedroom.

Some things never change.

He knocks on the door once and waits for a response. Sherlock’s annoyed _what?_ tells him that he’s in need of help but, as usual, he’s too stubborn to ask for it. “I’m coming in,” John announces, pushing the door open at the same time.

Sherlock has never cared particularly about privacy or _common decency,_ parading across the flat in several states of undress. He had kept most of his clothes on as long as John hadn’t known about his… _body_ but after the doctor had found out, he had seemed to forgone any consideration for property. As a result, John is quite familiar with Sherlock’s body, even if not in the capacity he’d like to be.

The consulting detective is sitting on the toilet, glaring at nothing in particular. It seems he was trying to redress his shoulder injury, but has failed miserably. John sighs, going to kneel next to him and applying himself to work, ignoring the tantalizing expanse of creamy skin right in front of him. “You’re always so stubborn,” he comments, earning himself a glare from his friend.

“I was fine,” Sherlock protests softly. “I could have done it myself,” he adds, once John has finished and the doctor rolls his eyes. “I managed when you weren’t there.”

John closes his eyes, telling himself not to snap. They both have been making a conscious effort to not speak about those years apart and now is not the time to be discussing such things. “In any case, I’d prefer it if you asked me for help.” He bites his lip, wondering if saying what he wants to say would be wise. “I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock smiles sadly, but doesn’t comment. John moves to stand up and that’s when he notices something that makes his blood run cold. “John?” Sherlock asks softly, noticing how he has freezed on the spot.

“What’s this?” he asks, his fingers trailing across the marks on Sherlock’s back and his friend flinches, pulling away immediately and grabbing his shirt, attempting to redress as quickly as possible. “Sherlock?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” his friend replies quickly, not looking at him. John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock’s pleading look makes him bite his lip. He’s curious and more than a little worried, but it’s obvious it’s a painful subject and he doesn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable.

“Alright,” he murmurs, placing a hand over Sherlock’s good shoulder. “But I’m here, if you need anything.”

The other nods stiffly before hurrying out of the bathroom, leaving a deeply troubled John behind.

They haven’t really talked about those 2 years apart.

Maybe they should.

* * *

 

There’s something that’s bothering John about the scars.

Something other than their sole existence and Sherlock’s reluctance to talk about them, that is.

There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, as if he had forgotten something. He wonders briefly if Sherlock had mentioned them before and they simply slipped his mind, but he finds that hard to believe. What’s more, if Sherlock had indeed mentioned them, he would have asked to see them and that, definitely, he wouldn’t have forgotten.

But-

His fingers trace the raised skin and Sherlock sighs resignedly, letting him do as he pleases. He had been quite determined to just change his friend’s bandages and ignore them, but that had proved to be next to impossible since his eyes kept stubbornly wandering in that direction.

“These are recent,” he comments softly, trying and failing not to imagine just how exactly Sherlock acquired them.

“I got them during my last month away,” Sherlock replies, just as softly, his whole body very tense. “Whatever you’re imagining John, I assure you, it wasn’t that bad.”

John’s laugh is a tad hysterical and Sherlock flinches. “I’m an army doctor, Sherlock. I know these things.” His friends pursues his lips, refusing to answer and John sighs, pulling away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t- I shouldn’t-”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assures him, standing up and grabbing his shirt. “It’s all in the past.”

“Sherlock-”

But the other man has already left the bathroom and John swallows his anger. He’s angry at himself, mostly and frustrated at Sherlock. If he had let him come along-

Well. There’s no use on thinking about what-ifs, is there?

* * *

 

Sherlock is muttering angrily to himself as he tries to find a comfortable position on the couch. John watches him from his chair, wondering what’s going on and if he should offer his help.

After their… discussion from the previous day in the bathroom, they haven’t been talking really. It’s a little weird, but it’s not uncomfortable and that unnerves John much more than what he’s willing to admit. With so many things hanging unspoken between them, he shouldn’t be this comfortable and yet-

“Are you okay?” he asks as Sherlock huffs for what feels like the millionth time, earning himself a dark look from his friend.

“Fine,” Sherlock responds sulkily, making John arch an eyebrow. “My feet ache,” he murmurs, perhaps a tad embarrassed, his cheeks acquiring a red color. John finds himself smiling as he makes his way to his friend, dropping himself on the other side of the couch and grabbing Sherlock’s feet before he can attempt to move.

Sherlock watches him warily and John smiles reassuringly before starting massaging his swollen ankles. The sound Sherlock makes goes directly to John’s groin, but he wills himself to ignore it immediately. He tells himself he’s just trying to make the other feel better and now is not the time to get distracted by his silly body and his even sillier hormones.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks after a bit, still a tad wary although it’s clear he’s enjoying the impromptu massage.

“I thought it might help,” John answers simply with a small shrug. “Surely you’ve read it somewhere? Or haven’t you been reading books on pregnancy?”

“Not books,” Sherlock argues as he lets out another moan and John fights down his increasing arousal. “Articles over the internet. More updated, but a bit contradictory. And while some articles suggested massages for swollen ankles, I didn’t have anyone- _oh, god, that’s good_ \- so I settled for cold or warm compresses and keeping my legs up.”

John smiles and continues his motions, trying to keep himself from reacting to the sounds Sherlock is making. Eventually he manages to tune him out and for the longest time there’s no other sound but Sherlock’s pleased sighs and occasional moan.

John’s fairly certain this is _a bit not good._

He can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

 

“John,” Sherlock says one morning, standing at the other side of the kitchen, looking for all intents and purposes as he’d much rather not say what he’s about to say. “I think- have you considered talking to Mary?”

John sighs. He has been carefully avoiding even thinking about her, in all honesty. He’s enjoying his stay at Baker Street perhaps a bit too much and while he knows he can’t make it permanent, he wishes-

“Not really,” he answers finally, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “I don’t- I’m not sure what’s there to say.”

Sherlock nods slowly, reluctant. “But you’ll think about it?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Sherlock hurries to assure him, sounding pained and John isn’t quite sure what to make of his tone. “No, I just- She called and I promised I’d talk to you. Again.”

John gulps, a part of him hating the thought of those two speaking to each other. After what Mary did, how can Sherlock even stand talking to her?

“I’ll think about it,” he promises softly and Sherlock nods, expression crumbling but before John can say something he has already escaped the kitchen and locked himself up in his bedroom.

God, what a mess.

* * *

 

_“Can we not talk about it right now?”_

_“But-”_

_It’s hard to think with one of Sherlock’s hands wrapped around his cock, so John decides they’ll talk about it later. But they’ll definitely be talking about it later. Soon. As soon as they-_

_“Oh, god, Sherlock!” The consulting detective smirks before kissing him once more and John wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer so he’s lying on top of him on the bed. He runs his hands over Sherlock’s back, feeling the raised skin and thinking once more they need to talk about that but then they’re kissing again, bodies moving together, searching for friction and it’s impossible to think anymore._

* * *

 

John wakes up, his heart beating erratically and breathing hard. He’s achingly hard too and he curses softly, glaring at his erection and telling himself he’s not about to masturbate to the thought of his best friend.

Only he’s lying to himself. It’s certainly not the first time he has done it and considering his previous dream-

He groans as he takes himself in hand and curses himself once more once he’s done, the normal rush of hormones after an orgasm not as pleasant as it should be due the guilt he’s feeling.

He closes his eyes, the images of the dream coming back to him right away and he curses once more, until something grabs his attention and distracts him from his self hate. The dream isn’t that different from several others he has had involving Sherlock over the years, but there’s a new element that had never been there before.

The scars.

He sits up, frowning as he tries to recall the details and feels dread filling his veins as he realizes the dream isn’t such thing, but it’s in fact a memory from the stag night.

He had taken off Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him towards the bed. He had ended up sitting at the corner of the mattress, Sherlock straddling him and then he had hold him close, his fingers running across his back and then-

_Can we not talk about it right now?_

Oh god.

He covers his mouth as the memory becomes clearer. For so long he has been telling himself it was just a very vivid dream, but that’s not the truth at all, is it? They did actually sleep together.

But then- if that’s true, if something _did_ happen, why did Sherlock let him go the following morning, without even mentioning it? Does he- did he think it had been a mistake and so had prefered to forget it altogether?

He closes his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. No, that can’t be right, that can’t be the truth.

Except it can. Because he has always known his feelings for Sherlock aren’t reciprocated and so while such action would have meant _so much_ to John, it can have been completely meaningless to his best friend. Something not worth remembering, something not worth mentioning ever again.

Oh god.

He thinks he’s about to be sick and so he stands up, hurrying towards the bathroom and stops mid step as he becomes aware of the broken sounds of the violin coming from downstairs. He can’t face Sherlock, not right now and at the same time-

He takes a deep breath to steady himself and begins his descent downstairs, listening to the sounds coming from the living room, his urge to throw up forgotten momentarily. He finds Sherlock sitting at his chair, attempting to play his instrument but not quite succeeding since he can’t rest it on his injured shoulder. Sherlock offers him a self depreciating smile and John freezes, unsure of how to react.

His friend frowns, evidently concerned by his odd reaction and John takes another deep breath, willing himself to calm down. “John?” Sherlock’s eyes are sweeping over his body and John feels suddenly self conscious, realizing he didn’t even bother to grab his nightgown and that even if the dim light makes it hard to see, there might be some evidence of his previous _activities_ on the front of his pants.

Oh, this night just keeps getting better and better.

“Nothing, I just-” he murmurs, his ears burning with shame. “I couldn’t sleep,” he finishes lamely, dropping himself on his usual chair and covering his face with his hands. Sherlock makes an agreeing sound, looking away and so granting John some privacy.

“Neither could I,” he whispers softly after a while. “It’s too hot in there. Although I been lead to believe that it might just be me, since that’s apparently another symptom to be expected during the third trimester.”

John hums, not really paying attention. He watches Sherlock from the corner of his eye, entirely too aware of the other’s presence and quite unnerved by it. He can’t make sense of his feelings or his thoughts and so he simply watches his companion in silence, allowing his thoughts to wander.

“Would you like to watch some telly?” Sherlock suggests after a while, struggling to stand up and John hurries to help him when he notices the way he’s wincing. “Sorry. I can’t- it’s a little hard to stand up since I can’t put much strain on my arm.”

John nods numbly, guiding his friend to the couch and sitting next to him while he turns on the TV. The world feels a bit surreal, to be honest, as if it all is happening to someone else. He doesn’t comment as Sherlock curls next to him, his head resting against his shoulder and they settle down to watch some mindless program in companionable silence.

There’s just too much noise inside his head and he doesn’t know what to think.

They really need to talk sometime.

But not now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I should say now that I can’t write smut to save my life, so I hope those couple of paragraphs weren’t painfully awkward ;)  
> Another bit of the puzzle has unraveled, but John has yet to make the connection between the baby and the fact that he and Sherlock did sleep together. Also, Mary has yet to make a come back and that might add to their problems ;)  
> On that note, I’m quite concerned on how believable the next chapter will turn out. In canon, having John “forgiving” Mary and going back to her made some sense considering she was pregnant but under this premise… well, it’s going to be a hell of a ride, that’s for sure ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I struggled a lot with the whole thing and I’m not completely sure it works but well… I hope it does.  
> I fear the beginning isn’t really needed, but the scene popped inside my head and I just couldn’t resist the hints of Mystrade so… I apologize in advance ;)  
> Enjoy!

The rain shows no sign of stopping any time soon.

The gloomy weather seems to match his mood rather well, although Mycroft isn't one prone to dwell on such fanciful thoughts. Even if the sun was shining brightly, he doubts it’d do anything for his dark mood.

He takes his eyes away from the window and lets them wander across the empty cafe. It's far too early in the morning, so he and Inspector Lestrade are the only patrons.

He allows himself a few minutes of unabashed staring, the other man too lost in his own thoughts to notice. In all honesty, he’s not sure why he asked him to meet him this early; Sherlock’s appointment it's not until eleven and in any case, it's not like his brother needs either of them to be present. He’d be perfectly fine on his own and even if he decided he wanted company, he could always ask Dr. Watson.

But Mycroft always worries too much and he supposes Gregory’s presence is more for his own benefit than his brother’s.

The other man is smiling,a soft sad thing that Mycroft isn't sure how to interpret. He's willing to admit, at least to himself, that he's always found the Inspector more than a little intriguing, which in turn always makes him pay much more attention to him, always analyzing and categorizing his every move.

“Dreadful english weather,” the other man comments suddenly, startling him out of his silent reverie. “I always hated the rain, even as a child. My mother used to say it was my continental roots showing.” His smile is wistful, the memory of his mother bitter sweet.

“French, wasn't she?” Mycroft questions. He has read Gregory’s file several times, so he knows for sure, but it seems polite to inquire, rather than state.

The Inspector raises an eyebrow, slightly amused and Mycroft tells himself not to blush. “Partially. My grandmother was from Spain, or so my mother was told. My grandfather had far too many lovers for his wife to keep actual track of them and she took in a few of his children so… she was fairly certain my mum was from the spanish one, though.” His tone is light, almost uncaring, but Mycroft knows better. There are certain family _secrets_ that aren’t pleasant to discuss out loud, but he must admit he feels honoured Gregory is willing to share this bit with him.

They sit in silence for a little longer, Mycroft glancing at his watch discreetly. If he must be honest with himself, he’d like to stay here forever, just basking in the other man’s presence, but he knows they both have many things to do. Besides, he did ask the Inspector on the pretense of accompanying Sherlock to the doctor and the appointment time is drawing near.

“My mum used to say some people are just doomed to unhappy endings,” Gregory musses out loud, startling Mycroft once more. “She seemed to think it was a family thing; she came all the way to London chasing after my father, who she had met during his summer break. She never found him, or so she said, but she met Elaine here. She always claimed she was the actual love of her life, but Elaine… _she wasn’t like that._ ” He smiles sadly, shaking his head and Mycroft sighs, his thoughts going to his brother and his _friend_ right away. Although of course John _is like that,_ only hiding as deep in the closet as it’s possible. “As for myself… well. I was 15 when I met the first _love of my life_ , but he was 24 so you can imagine how that went. And then I met my wife and…” he trails off, a self depreciating smile on his lips. “I think my mum might have been onto something.”

Mycroft nods thoughtfully, thinking very carefully about his next words. “I have a sister,” he says and Gregory arches an eyebrow, curious and surprised. “Half-sister. She lives with her father in Manchester, so I haven’t really seen her in a decade or so. My father, like myself, held a minor position in the Government, so he was constantly away. Mummy, like my brother, bored very easily and without someone to constantly praise her for her brightness…” He scrunches his nose in displeasure, not really fond of remembering that particular episode of his life. “Things were never the same between them. Sherlock doesn’t remember, he was too young to really notice any change but I- I never forgot.” He takes a sip of his tea, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. “Caring is not an advantage.”

Gregory smiles sadly, taking a sip from his own drink. “The first time I saw your brother and John together… God. I thought Sherlock was one hell of a lucky bastard. Most of us would give a limb to find someone that complements us like that.” He shakes his head, suddenly looking tired. “I don’t like thinking my mother was right, but perhaps- perhaps some people are indeed not meant to get happy endings.”

They both are looking upwards now, thinking of Sherlock who is in all likelihood pacing around the flat, getting ready to leave. “I’m not one to delude myself with silly imaginations,” Mycroft says, turning to look at his interlocutor once more. “I prefer to rely on actual observations and solid proof. I didn’t approve of Sherlock’s involvement with Dr. Watson, mostly because I feared the particular outcome we’re watching play out, but deep down I always believed…” He bites his lip, unwilling to finish the thought.

“That they would make it,” Gregory finishes for him, an ironic smile on his lips. “Yeah, me too. I was sort of counting on them to restore my faith in love,” he lets out a dry chuckle, completely devoid of humor.

Mycroft nods, expression pained.

There’s nothing like having your hope dashed, really.

* * *

 

John wonders how much longer he can keep on living like this.

He’s been meaning to talk to Sherlock about his revelation from the other night, but the timing never seems quite right. He knows that once they broach the subject there simply won’t be a way back and he’s not quite sure what to expect. He wants to believe that Sherlock will respond favorably, but all his previous observations seem to suggest otherwise.

He watches Sherlock coming out of the bathroom, hair still dripping wet, clothes clinging a little too tight to his frame. None of his clothes must fit him anymore, but it’s surprising how well put together he manages to look even with ill-fitting pants and an old t-shirt. He’s humming to himself, as he seems to do all the time now and something inside John aches fiercely at the sight.

“Are you going out?” he asks, aiming to sound disinterested and not quite succeeding. He has kept himself at arm’s length for the last few days, as he tried to sort through the mess of feelings left in the wake of his revelation, although he doesn’t flatter himself thinking Sherlock has really noticed.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds absent mindedly, searching for something inside the fridge. “Doctor’s appointment,” he adds as he makes his way past John, carrying a yogurt cup. “Lestrade and Mycroft should be at Speedy’s already.”

John nods, ignoring the way his heart seems to constrict inside his chest, his eyes dropping to Sherlock’s belly. He’s been itching to caress it for a while now, if only because Sherlock seems to be doing so all the time, but it just doesn’t seem… appropriate, somehow.

He continues pretending to be immersed in his reading of the morning paper and listens to his friend’s footsteps heading for the door. He listens to Sherlock pause at the stairs and then climb them up once more, until he’s once again standing in front of John and so the doctor puts the paper down, arching an eyebrow questioningly. “Do you want to come?” he asks, looking oddly nervous and John’s eyes drop to his swollen abdomen once more.

“Of course,” he answers finally, standing up and smiling at his friend, who returns his smile hesitantly. He follows him downstairs, wondering why exactly does it feel so important to go.

But then again, all Sherlock has ever needed has been to ask him to come along and John will rush headfirst into whatever crazy endeavour his friend is up to.

He wonders what that says about their relationship.

* * *

 

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on John’s face, who’s too busy staring at the images on the ultrasound screen to pay any attention to him. He can feel his heart breaking a little as he takes in his friend’s awed expression, wondering what it’d be like if John knew this is also his baby.

Dr. Wales is watching him, her eyes full of sympathy and Sherlock bites his lip, looking away. Sympathy and pity have always looked a little too similar to him and so he doesn’t care for either.

“This is the head, isn’t it?” John is asking, face practically pressed against the screen and Sherlock’s heart flutter. Dr Wales nods as John keeps pointing out body parts, smiling all the while.

“Very good,” Dr. Wales praises, smiling brightly at John and the doctor blushes a little, apparently sheepish now after noticing he’s being a little over enthusiastic. “Can you tell the sex?”

John bites his lip, looking at the screen closer. “I… think so?”

Dr. Wales chuckles, turning to Sherlock. “Would you care to hear Dr. Watson’s guess, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock considers this. He hasn’t asked after the baby’s sex because it seems completely irrelevant to him. But he supposes it wouldn’t hurt and if nothing else, it might be time to start thinking about names. “Sure,” he answers simply, smiling at John who smiles back before squeezing his shoulder once.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?” John says and Sherlock hums absentmindedly, basking in John’s obvious enthusiasm. He’s happy, he can tell, and Sherlock can’t help wondering if he’d be half as happy if he knew the child he’s expecting happens to be his too.

“Indeed,” Dr. Wales replies simply. “Have you thought of any names?” she asks, turning to Sherlock, smile kind and open.

“No,” Sherlock answers, although that’s not exactly the truth. He hasn’t given it much thought, but-

He smiles at John, who is now discussing some medical concerns with Dr. Wales and Sherlock allows himself to tune out their chatter. He’s confident things will go fine at birth and in any case, he doesn’t want to over worry himself.

For now everything seems to be going fine and that’s all that matters.

* * *

 

Thirty two weeks.

John makes his way upstairs, following after Sherlock, listening to the other man random chatter. Things went well at the doctor’s appointment and then they had lunch with Greg and Mycroft, before they both were called away. Until that point, John hadn’t really lingered on what Dr. Wales said, but now-

_A perfectly healthy 32 weeks along baby._

Thirty two weeks. Exactly 8 months ago. Which means-

Can it be? Surely not. Surely Sherlock would have said so. He might have been inclined to pretend he and John hadn’t slept together on the stag night, but surely he would have said something if John had gotten him pregnant. Surely he wouldn’t keep such a thing a secret from him, would he?

John’s blood runs icy at the thought. It’s possible, he supposes, that after years of self imposed celibacy, Sherlock decided it was time to try dating once more. It’s possible, he imagines, that after having sex with John, Sherlock’s mostly dormant libido had awoken and he had decided to blow off some steam with some random person. Or several random people, that could have happened to.

Somehow though, John doubts it.

But if that’s indeed the case-

He watches Sherlock walking around the flat, still talking, apparently sharing with John some deductions of the latest case he solved via email, complaining about the world’s general idiocy. John however can’t bring himself to pay attention; he can’t allow himself to become distracted by Sherlock’s brilliance. The idea that he might be keeping such a secret from him is just too painful to conceive.

Why would he do such thing?

He realizes he’s quickly growing angry and he figures now is not the time to lose his temper. “I’m going out,” he announces, interrupting Sherlock mid phrase and so earning himself a confused look from his friend. “I’ll be back soon,” he promises quietly, rushing out of the apartment a second later, urging himself to recover his calm.

There are just too many things happening at once, too many secrets being kept from him.

He needs time to think.

* * *

 

Sherlock watches John go, a slight frown on his face. His friend has been acting a bit… distant, lately, but he had thought their latest outing had gone well. He wonders briefly if bringing him along for his appointment was a bad idea and promptly dismisses the thought: what’s done is done and it’s of no use worrying about it.

He hears his phone ringing and he picks up right away, eager to distract himself from analyzing John’s odd behavior before he starts overthinking everything. Once he hears the voice on the other side of the line though, he regrets not paying more attention to the caller ID.

“Hello Mary,” he greets politely, caressing his belly absentmindedly. “John is out right now.”

“Oh? Didn’t he get enough fresh air during your little trip in the morning?” she asks, voice full of venom and Sherlock clenches his jaw. He imagined she might be keeping tails on them, but-

“I’ve tried talking to him,” Sherlock says, figuring it’s better not to dwell on the subject. “He keeps saying he’s thinking about it, but… you need to give him time.”

Mary hums. “I just- you do remember your promise, don’t you, Sherlock? You can’t- you can’t change your mind, you know?” her voice breaks a little, Sherlock suspects due unshed tears and he closes his eyes, willing himself to take a deep breath before answering.

“Of course,” he replies calmly, patting his abdomen as he feels the baby kicking as if in protest. “Don’t worry about it.”

He knows he made a promise and he intends to keep it.

Even if it kills him inside.

* * *

 

John sits in front of the TV, feeling at lost. His walk did nothing for his messy thoughts and he fears he’s slowly going insane. A part of him wants to demand answers from Sherlock, so he can at least attempt to understand what his supposed best friend is thinking, but another part of him is just too scared of getting such answers.

Is it better a merciful lie or a painful truth?

Sherlock is sitting on the couch, eating some chinese takeaway John bought on his way back. His friend’s eyes are fixed on the TV, but John can tell he’s not really paying attention and he wonders if Sherlock feels half as conflicted as himself.

This conversation they need to have will change their relationship forever and there won’t be turning back. Then again, Sherlock has decided to pretend there’s nothing to discuss and so-

Sherlock’s hiccup startles him out of his dark reverie and he turns to look at the man, who’s blushing profusely. John chuckles, amused despite himself and Sherlock offers him an embarrassed smile before another hiccup escapes him.

They dissolve into giggles and John wonders why can’t everything be this easy. It feels so right to be with Sherlock like this and he just doesn’t want to complicate things. His eyes drop to his friend’s belly then and he realizes they do need to talk.

With any luck, it might turn out for the best.

“May I?” he asks as Sherlock starts rubbing his belly. His friend looks startled for a second before he nods slowly, gesturing for John to come closer.

John sits next to him and rests his hand over Sherlock’s abdomen. A kick answers his touch right away and he can’t help his besotted smile. He looks up at Sherlock to find a matching smile on his face and he thinks it’d be so simple to tilt up his head just a little and-

Sherlock looks away probably sensing John’s line of thought and the doctor’s heart sinks. He keeps on hoping he’s not alone in this, but it seems-

“Mary called earlier,” Sherlock murmurs softly, not looking at John directly. “I- have you-”

John’s heart breaks, but he ignores the pain. “Do you want me gone, Sherlock?” he asks once more and has to look away after noticing the other’s man expression. He simply doesn’t know what to make of Sherlock’s reactions and-

“No,” the consulting detective murmurs defeatedly. “But I know you’ll go back to her sooner or later. I think- maybe it’d be for the best if it was sooner rather than later.”

“Why are you so convinced that I’m going to forgive her?” John asks softly, fingers still sprawled across Sherlock’s stomach, feeling the baby move.

“Because you love her,” Sherlock says gently, tone slightly wistful. “Isn’t that how love works?”

John huffs, angry with himself and frustrated with Sherlock. “What do you know about love?” he murmurs bitterly, standing up and pointedly not looking at him. “How could you possibly understand how I feel about Mary’s betrayal when you have never risked caring for someone other than yourself?”

Sherlock’s eyes are very wide, his expression pained. “How can you say that?”

“You always said you didn’t care for a relationship. You always said they were nothing but a waste of time. But I think- I think you’re just too scared of letting someone close. I mean, look at you! You decided to keep your child, but you won’t even _inform_ the other father of it. You won’t even give him the chance-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock interrupts darkly, eyes glowing with suppressed rage. “I never wanted a relationship because I never- my previous partners… I just don’t care for the hassle they involve.” John just keeps staring at him blankly and so he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I- The thing is-” he pauses, his tone wrecked and John thinks he might have pushed a little too far. “I never suffered of body dysphoria. A lot of the research done on transgender subjects centers around that but I never felt my body _didn't match._ I mean, I don't feel my body has anything to do with _who_ I am, _it just is._ So, to me, it has never felt _wrong._ But when I… when I had an intimate partner, they always made it very clear to me how _wrong_ it was. Either by throwing me out of their beds and their flats or by proceeding to treat me as if I was a _woman._ As if the fact that I don't have a penis made me somehow _fake._ ” John stares at him, his heart breaking once more at the pain in Sherlock’s tone and his friend looks away, biting his lip harshly. “Surely you can see why I wouldn't care for an actual relationship.”

He supposes he does and at the same time he doesn’t. Surely Sherlock knows John would never-

Or would he? Did he? Is that why Sherlock decided to act as if nothing had happened between them? Has he hurt his friend in such a horrible, irreparable way?

Oh god, no. John would rather die than cause Sherlock any pain, but-

“I-” he begins, unsure of what he can possibly say now, all the fight and the anger having been drained out of him. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine,” the younger man interrupts, expression defeated. “Let’s just- forget all this, yes?”

John bites his lip but nods, figuring it might be for the best.

He doesn’t know what else he could possibly do.

* * *

 

Sherlock lies alone on his bed, as every other night, but he feels impossibly lonely tonight. His little… conversation with John keeps playing inside his head and he curls under the covers, trying to keep the cold at bay, although he knows it’s rather useless since the cold is coming from within. He feels lonely, lonelier than ever before and he just wishes someone would hold him for a little while.

He can hear John pacing upstairs and he wonders what brought up his anger from earlier. The words hurt so much worse than what he would care to admit, because while he’s used to the world at large thinking him an unfeeling machine, incapable of love, John-

He closes his eyes, willing himself not to cry. All this stress isn’t good for the baby and he must bear that in mind at all times. Still, he can’t help feeling devastated as he remembers John’s earlier words: John, whom he loves more than life itself, for whom he’d do anything, anything at all, doesn’t think- doesn’t believe-

It might be for the best, though. If John was to learn about the depth of Sherlock’s feelings, there’s no way of telling how it might affect their relationship. Better to let him think-

But no. It’s not fair, it simply isn’t right. Sherlock went through hell and back to keep John safe and he continues making every sacrifice possible to ensure his happiness and yet, somehow, it’s not enough. Somehow John remains incapable of seeing how important he is to him, how much Sherlock is willing to do for him.

It’s completely _wrong_.

But then, nobody said life was fair.

* * *

 

John replays his conversation with Sherlock from earlier inside his head. He knows he was callous and unfair, lashing out in the midst of his confusion. It’s just too much and he has never been good with feelings, to be completely honest and so-

He’s just not sure of anything, anymore.

He’s still angry at Mary, there’s no doubt of that, but he barely spares a second to think about her when he’s with Sherlock. Life at Baker Street is _good,_ it feels just right and he can’t bear the thought of leaving, but-

He loves Sherlock and he can’t keep his feelings to himself any longer, not if he remains here. And yet he knows that that won’t end well, that it’ll lead to nothing but regret. Sherlock has been keeping secrets too and he suspects they are even deadlier than the ones from his wife, at least for his poor heart.

In the end, John supposes he really has no decision to make since, as usual, Sherlock has made it for him; Mary lied to him because she wants him in her life. Sherlock lied to him because he doesn’t.

Or well, at least not in that capacity. He does believe he’s lonely and that he misses him, but he doesn’t want anything more from John. Why else would he keep such a secret from him? Why else wouldn’t he tell him the baby he’s expecting is John’s? Surely he knows that if he did John would-

And that’s, he supposes, exactly the problem.

Sherlock doesn’t want what John has to offer. Maybe he did something wrong, maybe he hasn’t been able to show Sherlock how much he values him, how much he cares for him. Maybe he’s just not what the other man wants or needs.

Well then.

It is what it is.

* * *

 

Sherlock knows John has come to a decision the minute he steps downstairs. If it was prompted by their discussion from the previous night or not, doesn’t really matter, since he always knew this would happen: as he told John, he had always known he would forgive Mary and go back to her.

Once more, he has chosen her.

He smiles a bit sadly and offers to make breakfast, telling himself he’ll allow himself to break down later. He can’t let John see how much it pains him to see him go because that will make him feel guilty and will only delay the inevitable.

Sherlock was always meant to be on his own. Those few years he was granted with John by his side had been a gift from above, but it was never meant to last. He’s just not meant to get a happy ending.

But John is. More importantly, he deserves so.

And Sherlock will do anything in his power to ensure he gets the happiness he deserves, even if it means breaking himself. He’s fine, he’ll be fine.

He always is.

Later, as he watches John get into a cab, not looking back once, he thinks watching John go back to Mary is ten times more painful than the bullet she put through him and probably twice as deadly. Sherlock however keeps himself stoically put together, not letting anything betray the way he’s breaking in the inside.

At least not until the cab has pulled away and he’s certain he’s on his own once more.

Exactly as he was always meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> You don’t know how I struggled with the talking scene. Oh, why must they talk? Or rather, why must they be so epically bad at communicating? I could see a few different scenarios if they actually said all they’re thinking and actually wrote them but that’s not the direction I wanted this to go and well… I wonder if forcing the dialogue was a mistake. Does it feel terribly awkward and inauthentic to you? In a scale from 1 to S4, how badly written was it?  
> Anyway, let me know what you thought, pretty please? And if you have any ideas on how to fix it so it doesn’t feel so forced… well, I’m all ears!  
> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! In my head I kept thinking this was going to be a slightly more angsty chapter, but I think it turned out very… contained. I hope that’s not a bad thing, though ;)  
> Also, I was rereading my notes from the beginning of the fic and I ran across the bit about Mary being somewhat nice. Boy, did I miss that mark! (or maybe not? I mean, she’s a little murder-y but well…)  
> Anyway, enough of my ramblings. On with the chapter!

Mary stands at the door, staring at her  _ visitor  _ as she can’t quite believe her eyes. She’s aware she’s gaping like a fish out of water, but she’s too surprised to really care. 

“Hello, Mary,” John greets, a small (sad) smile on his lips, and she lets out an incredulous, nervous giggle before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close, well aware of the tears attempting to escape her eyes.

So she closes her eyes and keeps her husband close, wondering how did she get so lucky. 

God knows she did nothing to deserve it.

* * *

 

There’s a knock on the door and then it’s opening, allowing Lestrade in. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically but puts his violin away. His shoulder hasn’t fully healed and so he knows he shouldn’t strain it by attempting to play, but music has always helped him think. Then again, considering the inhuman sounds he has been pulling out from the instrument for the last hour or so, it might be for the best to stop.

“Does Mycroft still have the flat bugged?” he asks casually, dropping himself at his chair and gesturing for Greg to take a seat on the couch. The DI complies, his expression sad and Sherlock huffs.

Why does everyone feel the need to remind him of just how pathetic he is?

“You moved the chair,” Lestrade points out, gesturing towards John’s chair which Sherlock has managed to push to the farthest corner of the living room. Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

Just like John.

“I did request Mrs. Hudson’s help,” he says calmly, leaning back on his seat. “Neither of us should be doing any heavy lifting, but we managed to push it out of the way.”

Lestrade shakes his head, looking defeated and Sherlock has to close his eyes. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity and Lestrade of all people should know better than that. “I’m fine,” he growls lowly, annoyed more than anything. “I always knew how this was going to play out, didn’t I?”

“Did you?” the older man asks kindly, leaning closer. “Weren’t you hoping for a different outcome?”

Sherlock closes his eyes in an effort to calm himself. “I’m not one prone to romanticism,” Sherlock deadpans darkly. “As I’ve told you and my brother endless times, John chose her. He wasn’t about to walk out on her, regardless of her… unadvised actions.”

Lestrade scoffs but doesn’t press, allowing Sherlock to regain his composure. He cried a little as soon as John’s cab was out of sight, but he recovered quickly. He has always known crying doesn’t solve anything and wishing for something won’t make it happen.

What a wonderful world would it be if it was that easy.

“Tea?” he asks, standing up, eager to get distracted even if it is by something so mundane. He’s fine, he really is, but with people pressuring him… why do they think he wants to talk about it?

“Should you be drinking tea?” 

“It’s decaf,” Sherlock answers simply, entertaining himself with putting the kettle on. He might be feeling a little hungry, but he’s fairly certain he’ll just end up throwing up anything he attempts to eat, so…

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says once he has come back to the living room, placing a cup in front of the DI. “We’re here for you,” he promises softly, grabbing his hand and squeezing. Sherlock blinks a couple of times, moisture having gathered at the corner of his eyes and he nods once tightly.

“I know,” he replies, pulling his hand back. “I know.”

* * *

 

It’s near midnight by the time Mycroft finally lets himself into his brother’s apartment. He can hear Sherlock’s soft snores coming from his bedroom and he can’t help smiling a little. He drops his briefcase along with his coat by the door, uncaringly and makes his way straight to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water.

“Hey.”

Mycroft nearly drops his glass at the sudden appearance of Inspector Lestrade. The man offers him an amused smile, before moving away to put the kettle on. Mycroft makes a face, thinking he really doesn’t want to talk right now, but recognizing this might the best time for it, since Sherlock is asleep.

“So…” he begins hesitantly, unsure of how exactly to begin. He hates stating the obvious, but what else is there to say?

“I don’t know,” Gregory murmurs, rubbing his temples tiredly. “I thought- I don’t understand,” he says defeatedly, dropping his hands. “I don’t know why John went back to her and I don’t understand how could Sherlock let him do it. It makes no sense whatsoever.”

Mycroft hums thoughtfully, staring at nothing in particular. “Unlike us, and the rest of the world, my brother and Dr. Watson don’t think they’re meant to be.” He closes his eyes, feeling tired and so much older than he is. “I don’t understand either.”

“Well… what now?”

Mycroft considers this for a long while, toying with his now empty glass. “Now we’re back at the beginning,” he answers dejectedly. “Nothing has changed at all.”

Gregory sighs, shaking his head sadly. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says and Mycroft frowns, turning to look at him. “It has gotten worse.”

Well.

That might be the case indeed.

* * *

 

“Ugh. Look at this.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, completely unmoved by Sherlock’s displeasure. The younger man huffs, glaring at his brother. “What seems to be the problem, brother dear?” the infuriating man asks, as if he can’t see what’s clearly bothering him.

“Who designs maternity clothes?” Sherlock demands, hands on his hips. “They’re either horribly uncomfortable or plain horrible. And in my current state, I tend to prefer comfort over style, but this is too much.”

“Always the drama queen,” Mycroft replies, simply turning the page of his paper. 

“Says the man who won’t take off his suit jacket, even when it’s 40°C outside,” Sherlock complains, dropping himself on his chair.

“Hum. Touche.” Mycroft puts down his paper, smirking and Sherlock glares some more. “I do think you look rather radiant, brother dear. As any father-to-be would.” He smirks some more and Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Truly, Sherlock, you look fine.”

“I look like a bloody whale, but thanks for trying to get me to feel better,” the younger one mutters darkly, but smiles a little when his brother pats his knee comfortingly. “What did Mummy want?”

Mycroft sighs and Sherlock can already tell this is going to be bad. “She has requested our presence at Christmas this year.”

“No way in hell.”

“Yes, well, I assumed you would say so. Unfortunately she won’t accept the excuse you’re working on a case, since she  _ insists  _ you should be in bedrest and I… I’m not keen on letting you go on your own so- there.”

Sherlock blinks. He knows Mycroft cares, but they just don’t- they’re not like that. “Can’t I fake a stomach bug or something?”

“Only if you want to spend the holidays trapped with her looking after you.” He smiles a bit tightly. “You don’t have your  _ doctor fellow  _ to watch after you anymore.”

Sherlock winces. John was always a sore subject with Mummy, who kept insisting John should make an _ honorable man _ out of Sherlock and marry him already and Sherlock insisting he and John weren’t actually sleeping together.

Of course that’s an even sorer subject now that John has in fact gotten him pregnant while being married to someone else.

Not that Mummy knows, of course, but she might suspect so.

“She was never particularly caring when we were children,” Sherlock protests, pouting a little. “Why does she have to care now?”

“Guilt, I suspect,” Mycroft replies simply, an icy smile on his lips and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he announces, standing up. “Are you bringing your  _ fellow  _ with you? That would certainly get her off my back.” Mycroft glares and picks up his paper once more, ignoring Sherlock’s smirk. “She probably won’t be happy about him being a cop, but-”

If looks could kill, Sherlock would be a very dead man.

But luckily that’s not the case.

* * *

 

The digital clock on the bedside says it’s 2 am.

Mary sits up, figuring she’s not going to get any sleep and it’s pointless to keep trying to. She looks around the room, trying to summon the strength to get out of bed and do something (anything at all) but her eyes keep falling onto random objects around the room that remind her John is back, but not really.

Her husband is still sleeping on the couch and besides the polite  _ good mornings _ and  _ good night _ s and  _ would you pass the sugar? _ they’re not really talking. After their hug the day he came back, John has been careful to keep as much distance between them as possible and it’s slowly killing her inside.

She knew this was a bad idea.

She takes a pillow and buries her face in it, attempting to scream her frustration away. She should have put that damn bullet through Sherlock’s heart; it would have saved her from a lot of hassle. Kill Sherlock, kill Magnussen, comfort John while he mourned his best friend  _ again.  _ Not something she would have been particularly keen on, but better than this.

So much better than this.

“Mary?” She looks up at the knock on the door, listening to her husband’s shuffling on the other side of it. “Are you alright?”

She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. “No,” she replies honestly, hugging her knees to her chest and she hears John sighing. This isn’t how she thought things would work out between them, but she probably should have known better than to think it could be this easy.

The door opens and she looks away, not sure she can handle this. John sighs once more before slipping in, closing the door after him. Mary doesn’t move and doesn’t even look at him as he comes to sit next to her.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs finally and from the corner of her eye Mary can see his hand hovering somewhere around her shoulder, as if unsure if he should touch her, which just makes her feel worse and so she curls tighter into herself. “I don’t- I know these last few weeks haven’t been good.”

Mary huffs. “Well, I did lie to you about my whole life,” she says softly, a sad self depreciating smile on her lips. “I suppose I brought it upon myself.”

John hums, his hand finally coming to rest between her shoulder blades. “That certainly hasn’t helped,” he agrees, tone slightly wistful. “But I’m not blameless in this whole mess,” he murmurs, voice a strained whisper and Mary lets out a dry chuckle.

“Why did you marry me?” she asks, finally turning to look at him. “You can not honestly tell me you didn’t know you loved him.”

John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I did- do love you, Mary. But I suppose it was unfair. I shouldn’t- Maybe I should have thought things through.”

Mary laughs, a nervous high pitched sound. “So should I.”

They don’t say anything else for the night.

 

“I’m not sure this a good idea,” John murmurs as they park outside the small country house. He can’t imagine Sherlock growing up here; he must have found it incredibly boring. And yet-

“That could be the title of your autobiography,” Mary comments, a light smile on her lips. “We can still leave, if that’s what you want,” she adds, placing a hand over his and John has to exercise every bit of his self control not to flinch. Saying things between them since he came back have been tense would be the understatement of the century, but the worst part is that he doesn’t know if he wants to make them better or not.

“Come on,” he urges, opening the door and so escaping his wife’s close presence. Mary follows at a much more measured pace, a thoughtful look on her face as she looks around, eyes infinitely sad.

John knocks, telling himself now is not the time to try sort things out between them. Wasn’t that the whole point of accepting Sherlock’s invitation to spend Christmas with his family? To avoid being alone with his wife?

Well, maybe that’s his answer.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to get better.

But what does he want, then?

* * *

 

“I can not believe you invited Dr. Watson along,” Mycroft states very seriously, unsure of what exactly he’s feeling. Annoyance, yes and frustration, definitely. But there’s something else- something that makes him want to slap some sense into his brother, although of course he’d never do that.

“Why not?” Sherlock asks offhandedly, taking the tray of freshly baked cookies for himself and so earning himself a glare from Mycroft. “He’s my friend.”

“And Mrs. Watson?”

“Well, it’s stands to reason than since she’s married to my friend, she’s my friend too,” Sherlock argues back calmly and Mycroft takes a deep breath, rubbing his temples tiredly.

“Why do you believe you deserve as much hurt as you can get?” Mycroft asks quietly and continues before Sherlock can even open his mouth so say something foolish. “Why can’t you be convinced that Dr. Watson’s happiness is not more important than yours?”

Sherlock offers him a self depreciating smile but doesn’t answer. Mycroft sighs, wondering what he can possibly say now. “Don’t worry, brother dear,” Sherlock says suddenly, sliding the tray in his direction. “Very soon we’ll be able to put this whole mess behind us.” He smiles in what Mycroft assumes is supposed to be a reassuring manner, but it’s far from it.

What is that supposed to mean?

* * *

 

The house is nice and cozy, but it feels fake somehow. Mary can’t quite pinpoint what’s wrong with it, but something feels wrong. 

She’s been left alone in the living room since Mrs. Holmes said something about making sure dinner was ready and Mr. Holmes went out to pick something at the store. Her husband, of course, is holed up with Sherlock somewhere and so it’s just herself and her dark thoughts to keep her company.

Not that different from the life she had gotten used to, if she must be honest, but then she had thought those days were past her.

She lets her eyes wander across the enormous bookshelf, thinking she’ll read something to entertain herself. They’re mostly science books and so nothing really grabs her attention, until she comes across a mathematics book whose author claims to be V. Holmes.

Well, that explains where the brains from the family come.

She picks it up, not terribly interested but itching to distract herself. She loses herself in her reading for a few minutes and when she looks up, she’s not alone anymore.

She smiles at Mr. Holmes politely and the man smiles back. She supposes they don’t know about her and Sherlock’s…  _ encounter _ or they wouldn’t be this calm around her and for some reason, it angers her a little.

“Violet was always the brain of the family,” the man comments off handedly, noticing the book Mary is reading. “I was much more... “ He shrugs non committedly and Mary smiles in acknowledgment. “She was teaching at Cambridge when we met, while I held a minor position in the Government.”

“As your eldest?” Mary questions, one eyebrow raised and the man laughs good naturedly.

“Not quite,” He continues smiling, but his eyes are sad and Mary stares at him curiously. “I quitted shortly after Sherlock was born. I was constantly away and it took a strain on my marriage so… yeah. I quitted.”

Mary nods, thoughtful. “Do you regret it?” she finds herself asking, without really meaning to. She knows the answer already and she suspects the polite thing would have been to let the matter rest.

“Love is supposed to be worth every sacrifice, isn’t it?” he answers, his eyes saying the truth and Mary smiles, a bit self deprecating.

“So they say,” she agrees, thinking that that might hold true when love is true too.

But sometimes that’s just not the case.

* * *

 

“Any minute now,” Sherlock announces enigmatically, standing up and John looks up at him, one eyebrow raised. He smiles at his friend, a bit sadly perhaps, as he picks up his coat and heads for the door.

They’ve been at his childhood bedroom, not really talking, just enjoying each other’s presence. Which, considering the circumstances, is probably all kinds of wrong and it makes Sherlock’s heart ache, but he ignores it with practiced ease.

After all, he can’t simply shut John out of his life and so he figured he should learn to live with this horrid longing.

It’s better than the alternative.

“Where are we going?” John asks as he follows him downstairs, but Sherlock ignores him, looking into the living room where he finds his parents and Mary asleep, their eggnog cups on the floor, exactly as he expected. He smirks and continues his way into the kitchen, where he finds his brother asleep, head resting against the table.

“Sherlock?” John asks, coming into the kitchen, looking more than a tad confused and so Sherlock offers him a smile as he picks up Mycroft’s laptop.

“Come on, John,” he says, smile pleasant and full of confidence, while John just gapes perplexedly at him. “The game is on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I’m really enjoying working on this. It’s all very messy and very confusing, but I’m very eager to write the next chapter which will take us a step closer to our happy ending (although it might not look so. Then again, lots of what will happen in the next chapter comes directly from canon so…)  
> I must confess I feel slightly… guilty about the hell I’m putting everyone through, but I hope it does make some sort of sense. This chapter wasn’t as emotionally charged as I thought it’d be but well, I rather like it.  
> Let me know what you thought, pretty please? Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I was having a hard time with this chapter, since I was sort of rewriting the canon scene but I… god I hate that last scene with Magnussen. I hate him, actually, so… yeah, I can’t actually rewatch that episode. I just can’t.  
> So, I figured that since the scene actually remained pretty much that same (and that could be boring anyway), it worked better if I left it unwritten and just made some references to the events, leaving the whole thing implied. I hope that’s not confusing, but let me know if it is!  
> Without further ado, enjoy!

“What were you thinking?!”

In retrospective, Sherlock must admit his actions didn’t necessarily make much sense. In retrospective, he can see there were several ways he could have proceeded, different paths that he could have taken. Whether or not they would have lead to better endings is hard to tell and, at the end of the day, he thinks it’s rather unimportant.

What’s done is done.

He eyes Mycroft from the corner of his eye, not daring to meet his brother’s gaze. The older man looks tired and defeated, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He also looks desperate, as a drowning man that knows no salvation will come and Sherlock can’t handle the guilt he feels at being the cause of it all.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs finally, hugging his knees to his chest or at least attempting to, considering his massive belly. The floor is cold and unforgiving, but he’s just too tired to keep on standing. Despite it all, he only wants to be left alone so he can attempt to sleep.

“Sherlock,” his brother murmurs brokenly, kneeling on the floor so they’re at eye level and yet Sherlock refuses to meet his gaze. “I don’t- I can’t- I’m afraid there’s no way out of this. It’s beyond my means.”

Sherlock nods slowly, still not looking at him. “I know.”

“I- I can’t help you. I’m so sorry, but I can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Sherlock argues softly, toying with the hem of his shirt. “I just have one request.”

He looks up then, his eyes locking with Mycroft’s and his brother sighs once more; a defeated sound that Sherlock never thought he would hear from him. “Yes, of course. I’ll look after your daughter. And I’ll make sure- Dr. Watson will-” his voice breaks and Sherlock pulls him into an awkward hug, limbs getting tangled.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock murmurs, although he knows it’s a lie. “It’ll be fine.”

Sometimes, we must lie to ourselves in order to keep going.

But some lies are harder to believe than others.

 

* * *

 

John paces around the small room, feeling like a caged animal. He keeps playing inside his head their whole encounter with Magnussen and he tortures himself with  _ what-if  _ scenarios. He knows he can’t change what happened and thinking about all the ways he could have intervened to avoid the catastrophe isn’t helping, but he can’t stop himself.

And the worst thing- the absolutely worst thing is-

“John.”

Mary’s voice is like a bucket of cold water and he turns to his wife, angry beyond words. Mary blinks once, looking startled and then her face becomes a perfect blank mask. “It’s not my fault,” she deadpans, straightening her back and staring at him with cold eyes.

It really isn’t. Not completely, anyway.

He’s shaking, he’s well aware but he can’t bring himself to relax. Ever since this nightmare began he has been fighting his anger, his desperation, his frustration and he can barely contain himself anymore. He’s bone tired and he just feels so defeated-

Mary sighs, looking away and she takes a seat on one of the uncomfortable chairs. John goes back to pacing, wondering how could he have allowed things to spiral so out of control so quickly; why did he go along with Sherlock’s crazy plan anyway? It’s not like his friend was in any state to be doing any case-work and even if he was- the sheer madness of it all-

He looks at Mary once more. He wants to be angry at her, but he thinks he’s mostly mad at himself. Because Sherlock foolishly believed his happiness was more important than his and since he believed Mary _ made him happy _ , he needed to go and sacrifice his life in order to keep her secret.

God, what a mess.

He wonders if everything could have been avoided if he had acknowledged the truth sooner. He knows he’s in love with Sherlock; has always known it. He knows he can’t really be happy without him by his side, how can he not know- how could he believe-?

One of the door opens and Mycroft steps in. He looks as tired as John feels, eyes red rimmed. There’s such sorrow in his expression that John isn’t sure how to approach him, so he remains where he is, just staring, telling himself demanding answers will do nothing for them. “I-” Mycroft begins, before shaking his head and looking away. John’s heart drops to his feet; he had been hoping-

Well, never mind that.

“Can I see him?” he asks, his voice a strained whisper and Mycroft shakes his head once.

“No,” he replies and hurries to continue when John opens his mouth to protest. “He’s in solitary confinement for now. We can’t- he’ll be allowed no visitors until his fate has been decided.”

John gulps, his tongue feeling like sandpaper. “What will happen then?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, letting out a sigh. “I don’t think any… _ disciplinary measures _ will be taken until the baby is born. Afterwards…” he trails off, shoulders dropping, expression haunted.

John covers his mouth in an attempt to keep his anguished cry in.

But he can’t stop the tears from falling.

 

* * *

 

That Magnussen’s secret vault didn’t actually exist was a gross miscalculation on Sherlock’s part. He could have let the matter go then, he could have chosen to simply face the consequences of being accused of attempting to sell delicate information to the horrible man, but he  _ couldn’t _ . He had known that as long as Magnussen lived, he was a threat to the Watson’s domestic bliss.

He probably shouldn’t have shot him anyway.

But he had made a vow and he had promised Mary he’d help her; he knew her past would always hang like a dark cloud over her and John as long as the treat of it coming to light was present, therefore-

A bold, probably foolish move, but an effective one regardless.

He’s not sorry about shooting the hateful man. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, he thinks, given the chance. But maybe he’d think his whole strategy better. If he-

He closes his eyes as he remembers the whole encounter. Magnussen had known exactly which buttons to push, throwing every single one of his insecurities in his face, taunting him mercilessly about his hopeless, unrequited love and then he dared to threaten John; what’s worse, he admitted to have targeted him before and-

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to relax. He’s been moved to a slightly bigger cell, this one with an actual bed, the only consideration to his current state. The baby is calm, for once, moving every now and then, reassuring Sherlock of her well being, but there are no constant kicks and Sherlock must admit it’s somewhat soothing.

He has enough to worry about without dragging his child into the mess.

Although... that’s something he needs to consider, sooner or later. Mycroft has already agreed to take care of her and Sherlock has no reason to doubt his brother’s word, but the truth is-

He bites his lip, turning the idea inside his head. He thinks she’ll be better off with her other father, but that leaves the problem of actually letting John know she’s his. Then again, he could probably get away with simply asking John to look after her: he knows his friend will, out of some moral sense of duty, but-

It feels wrong, somehow.

And yet, he’s not eager to have that particular discussion. What’s worse, he’s not sure if he’ll be allowed to. It’s very likely that once his fate’s been decided, the sentence will be executed swiftly, without giving him a chance to talk to anyone. And if that’s the case-

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. His own death is unavoidable, but it’s of no concern. He’ll be gone and that’ll be it; what matters is the people he’ll leave behind. He thinks of his last conversation with his brother and wonders why he didn’t take the chance to tell him- to let him know-

He realizes he’s shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. He’s afraid, there’s no denying that and if he could turn back in time, he thinks there are several things he’d do differently, but thinking about it is a pointless exercise. What’s done is done and now he has to focus on the people that will be left to mourn his death.

Good god, what a horrid thought.

 

* * *

 

There’s something to be said about high security prisons.

They’re never as secure as people like to think.

Mary smirks as she drops herself just outside Sherlock’s cell. She’ll give them that; at least they have the good sense of not putting vents inside the cells: no matter how high the ceiling is, people with nothing to lose can get up to all sort of crazy stuff.

She considers the lock for a beat and promptly dismisses attempting to pick it. It’s likely it’ll activate an alarm and the last thing they need right now is her getting arrested for attempting to bust Sherlock out.

It would make this whole  _ sacrifice-thing  _ rather pointless.

She looks around, figuring the security cameras blind spots and making sure to stay in them. She asks herself once more what is she doing here and why does she feel so  _ guilty  _ about the damn thing, but-

Well. Nothing for it.

“I wish you had talked to me first,” she says, careful to keep her tone low but audible. 

She listens to Sherlock’s moves on the other side of the door as he stands up and comes closer. There’s a brief pause and Mary pursues her lips, wondering if this was a bad idea.

No, scratch that. She knows it was a bad idea, but- “How did you get here?” Sherlock asks softly. He sounds tired, but unharmed and Mary supposes that’s good enough. 

“I’m very good at what I do,” she answers, biting her lip. “Which is why you should have let me handle this.”

“Mary-”

“Had I known what you were planning- Damn it, Sherlock. Why did you think getting yourself killed was a good idea?”

“I didn’t-”

“Oh, you might as well,” she hisses, her voice raising and she scowls darkly at herself for letting her emotions get the best of her.

“I miscalculated,” Sherlock murmurs softly, tone sad. “I made several miscalculations on this particular case, actually. It’s a miracle we’ll only have one casualty in the aftermath.”

Mary hums, thoughtful. “Emotional involvement always clouds one’s judgement,” she says, rubbing her temples tiredly. “So, what now? Is big brother actually not going to help you?”

Another pause, this one longer than the previous one and Mary has her answer. Her heart constricts in her chest and she makes a face. This emotion-business is truly dreadful.

“You’ll look after him, yes?” Sherlock says softly, pleadingly. “You’ll- you’ll make sure he’ll be happy again, right?” his voice breaks and Mary closes her eyes as she listens to Sherlock’s quiet sobs.

“Yes, I will,” she promises softly, although she doubts she’ll manage. But lying is probably the best policy now; the most merciful thing to do. What’s the use of telling him John will be devastated? Of telling him that in his crazy attempt to make things better between them, he has actually managed to pull them apart most definitely?

“I- I wish I hadn’t made quite as many mistakes,” Sherlock whispers softly, brokenly. “But at least- at least I kept my vow, didn’t I?”

For a second, Mary hates herself. She should have known this wouldn’t end well, she should have acted sooner. She should- 

She should have realized she was stealing someone else's chance on happiness.

“Tell John I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s footsteps retreat and Mary ponders her options. She supposes they’re both blind fools; so blinded by their feelings they never noticed the truth. But she supposes they’re fundamentally different too: she’s selfish, always have been and Sherlock… Sherlock gave up everything for the happiness of the man he loves.

It’s clear as water what she should do now.

But the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to do it.

 

* * *

 

The pain pierces through him, making him fall on his knees, clutching his abdomen.

He kept having mild pains all through the morning, but as usual he dismissed his body’s protests as unimportant. The pain got worse through the afternoon though and became unbearable through the night, but he still refused to call for help. Considering his circumstances, he didn’t think-

As another contraction hits, he thinks he’s been more than a bit foolish. He’s supposed to be in total isolation, but surely they wouldn’t deny him medical assistance during birth? That’d be- he can’t-

The pain makes it hard to think. In fact, the pain makes it hard to do anything at all but cry out in pain. He sits on the bed, attempting to find a comfortable position and promptly discovers there’s no such thing. The contractions are coming closer together, but he can’t keep track of them and although he has read several articles on the subject of childbirth, he realizes he has no idea whatsoever what to do now. He always assumed-

He’s scared and in pain and his brain is panicking. This can’t be happening to him, this isn’t supposed to happen at all! He can’t- this won’t- he needs-

The door opens and Dr. Wales storms in, still wearing her pajamas and wrapped in a big coat that she discards carelessly after taking a single look at him. She’s yelling for medical supplies and there are people coming and going, but Sherlock can’t focus on a damn thing: his mind is totally blank, for once in his life.

“Sherlock, I need you to focus, yes?” Dr. Wales says, her tone soothing but Sherlock is just too overwhelmed. The woman sighs, eyes sad and full of pity and for once, Sherlock doesn’t mind.

He’s just too scared to care.

“Alright, we can do this,” the doctor murmurs, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “Just listen to me and follow my instructions, alright?”

Sherlock nods, but he’s not sure if he can.

This is definitely not how he thought this would go.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the phone ringing wakes John up, startling him out of a restless sleep. He can hear Mary’s steps coming from the bedroom, but he’s closer to the phone so he picks up first. Mary stands next to him, expression blank and John forces himself to pay attention to anything other than the sudden wave of self hate.

After Mycroft tells him Sherlock has gone into labor, he stops listening. He stands up and hurries into the bedroom, dressing hastily and picking up a jacket. Mary has followed him and is watching him in silence, a slight frown on her face as if she’s thinking about something.

“He’s gone into labour, hasn’t he?” she asks, grabbing a jacket of her own and John glares briefly, making her sigh but she continues putting on the jacket and grabbing a pair of shoes. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not,” John deadpans darkly, heading for the door.

“John!” Mary calls and while he doesn’t really want to listen to anything she has to say, he stops. He looks over his shoulder briefly, to find Mary standing by the bedroom’s door, expression a tad desperate. “I- I know now isn’t the time to talk but…” She bites her lip, hesitant and then carries on. “I’m all you have right now. So I’m coming with you, no matter what you say.”

John closes his eyes briefly, hating his wife’s pained tone. He supposes he’s being somewhat unfair to her: she was the one keeping secrets, of course, but Sherlock decided to help out of his own free will (for some ridiculous reason John still can’t understand). Besides, she’s right; she’s all he has right now.

She might be all he has later too.

It’s a selfish, cruel,  _ hateful _ thought and yet-

“Let’s go,” he says, the fight having left him and Mary follows him. They don’t say anything else and John drives in silence, his thoughts and emotions a complete mess.

This shouldn’t have happened.

If only-

But it’s too late for regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I fear Mary’s characterisation is a complete mess; it makes some sort of weird sense inside my head but I’m not sure if it makes sense to you. I think she loves John but she’s fundamentally very self centered and selfish, and she dislikes Sherlock and doesn’t trust him because she knows how John feels about him, but now she’s seen he was actually trying to help although that doesn’t really change her feelings since her husband is still in love with him and everything is a mess so… yeah.  
> I don’t know. I honestly don’t know if I’m messing up big time.  
> I hope you liked it, though! Thanks for reading! Pretty please let me know what you thought?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is one long chapter… I didn’t realize until I finished it and then I figured I might as well post it like this instead of trying to break it into several parts :P  
> Anyway, enjoy! (or not, since, you know, this is one hell of an angsty ride)

It feels more like a funeral than a birthing.

Dr. Wales passes Mycroft his baby niece and he holds her carefully, close to his chest, perhaps a tad tighter than what’s strictly necessary. He can hear his brother cries, pleading to be allowed to hold his daughter and his heart breaks into a million pieces. It takes every ounce of his self control not to push his way into the room, ignoring every order he’s been given, not to mention the guards standing just outside it.

He closes his eyes, wishing he could close his ears too somehow. Dr. Wales offers him a sad smile and slides past him, sending one last concerned glance in the direction of Sherlock’s now closed door. Mycroft hesitates still, hating that despite all his power and influence, he’s incapable of doing a damn thing right now.

He forces himself to move before he does as he wants to do, risking all their lives. Every step is a remainder of all the ways he has failed his little brother and he knows he’ll never forgive himself for it.

But he also knows there’s nothing else he can do right now.

 

* * *

 

The clock on the wall announces it’s 3 o’clock in the morning. John rubs his eyes tiredly and attempts to find a more comfortable position on the impossibly small chair. It’s obvious the stay in this security facility is meant to be as painful and uncomfortable as possible for everyone, but he can barely focus on that. He has bigger problems than his comfort, after all.

Mary is sitting next to him, looking outside the miniscule window with a bored expression. She has one hand on John’s knee, drawing small circles and John stares at her hand for the longest time, trying to recall what he once felt for this woman. He must have loved her, he knows, or he wouldn’t have asked her to marry him, particularly not after Sherlock came back. Even if he was angry at Sherlock and hurt by his actions-

He wouldn’t have married Mary if he didn’t love her, would he?

But now… now he feels nothing. And he thinks that that might be a hundred times worse: he doesn’t hate her, he’s not even angry at her any more. He just feels nothing at all. As if she was a perfect stranger.

Perhaps that’s somewhat true.

Mary looks at him then, as if sensing his thoughts and she smiles faintly. She looks tired too and defeated, as someone who knows that they have already lost the war but must continue fighting.

John has no clue what that says about them, or their relationship.

The door opens and John is onto his feet a second later. From the corner of his eye he notices Mary apparently sinking further into her seat, but he’s no longer putting attention to her, his whole focus on the man that has just entered the room and the small bundle he’s holding.

He approaches Mycroft slowly, heart beating erratically. Their eyes meet for a second before he drops them to the bundle in Mycroft’s arms. Grey eyes peer at him, he would say curiously, except baby’s eyesight is notoriously bad this early in life and yet-

The baby makes a small whimpering noise, probably annoyed by all the light and noise that weren’t a problem while in the womb. Mycroft makes as if to hand her to him and John takes a step back immediately. The older man frowns a little and holds the baby closer to him once more.

John thinks he’s about to be sick. “Do you- Have you- Did Sherlock give her a name?”

Mycroft sighs, eyes fixed on his niece. “He didn’t get to hold her.”

Yes, he’s most definitely going to be sick. “What?!”

“I’m working on that,” Mycroft promises earnestly, looking as desperate as John himself feels. “Do you- don’t you want to hold her?”

John isn’t sure he wants to, but he agrees, if only because he supposes it’s not right not to. She’s his daughter, after all, even if her other father never admitted it to him. 

She has Sherlock’s eyes, he thinks, but the rest of her features are his. Sherlock would have had a hard time explaining how was that possible if John wasn’t the father, but he supposes it doesn’t matter any longer. It’s likely he’ll never talk to Sherlock again (and isn’t it a pity? so many things left unsaid). Even worse, it’s likely Sherlock won’t even get to meet their daughter. He just gave birth to her and now... now…

“You have to do something,” John says, looking up at Mycroft. “You can’t- whatever happens next, Sherlock should get to meet our daughter.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen a bit and that’s all the confirmation John needs. The older man nods tightly, before glancing at the door he came through. “I should get to that immediately,” he murmurs softly, biting his lip. “Do you- should I leave her with you?”

John nods, even if he still feels unsure. But this is his daughter and he needs to be here for her. Mycroft nods too before exiting the room, closing the door after him and leaving John alone with his baby.

And Mary.

“You knew?” he asks, noticing her complete lack of response at his last phrase and Mary sighs, pushing her hair off her face.

“Yes,” she answers simply and John feels like he’s been betrayed all over again. Sherlock would keep the secret from him, but he’d tell Mary- “I figured it out right away. I didn’t think you would… but then Sherlock said you had been quite drunk and that you probably didn’t remember it.”

John nods, not really wanting to get into an argument. He sits next to her, eyes fixed on his daughter as he tries to figure out what happens now.

To be honest, he has no idea whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

“It simply can’t be done, Mycroft,” Lady Smallwood says, not looking at him, pretending to be focused on the documents in front of her. Mycroft taps his fingers against his knee, impatient and slightly annoyed, but forces himself to keep his calm.

“What my brother did-”

“Was foolish and restless,” the woman says and Mycroft pursues his lips. His interlocutor looks up, mouth a thin line. “Magnussen was… you know I was the one who put your brother in his path originally. The man was a nasty piece of work and we’re all better off without him, but the higher ups get a bit nervous when someone shots one of them, whether they liked them or not. It can not go unpunished.”

Mycroft scrunches his nose in displeasure. “I’m well aware,” he says, leaning back on his seat. “I’m not asking for a pardon, although it’d be desirable.”

Lady Smallwood smiles tightly. “As much as I’d like to help… it’s really out of my hands. We’ll discuss it with the others in a few days and then a decision will be made.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’d suggest to have a proposal ready.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, feeling infinitely tired; these last few days have been hell and they show no sign of improving. “I already have one,” he murmurs dejectedly and stands up to leave. “I just- there’s another request I’d like to make.” Lady Smallwood arches an eyebrow questioningly and Mycroft carries on. “My brother would like to talk to Dr. Watson one last time; I’d consider it a personal favour for you to arrange it to happen.” He has chosen his words carefully and he knows most people would jump at the chance of having him owing them a favour, but this isn’t just anyone, of course.

The woman taps her fingers against her desk. “Fine. Since most of the personnel will be busy tonight at midnight, it might be for the best to do it then.”

Mycroft nods, having been expecting that answer and leaves the room without adding anything else.

There’s nothing else to say, after all.

 

* * *

 

The clock announces it's midnight.

Although faint, the sound of people cheering and celebrating the New Year in the streets can be heard. Sherlock thinks it’s part of the prison’s design: let the people trapped there know that just outside their ridiculously small, uncomfortable, dark cell, live goes on.

He sighs, resting his forehead against the cold wall. He’s going crazy, he thinks, pacing around the room with only his increasingly desperate thoughts for company. He’s in pain and all the walking is no doubt making it harder for his body to recover, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter, not anymore.

He punches the wall in desperation, wondering how much longer he can go on like this. Is this it, is this how he’s going to die? All by his own, driven insane by the silence and the isolation?

He shouldn’t be surprised, really.

He caresses his abdomen, still swollen but with no life in it anymore; not even his child to keep him company now. It was horrible being alone and with nothing to do, but at least he had his baby.

Now though-

He punches the wall once more, in an attempt to distract himself from his emotional pain. He didn’t even get to hold his child, not once and-

He collapses on the floor, crying in earnest now. His hand hurts and he’s vaguely aware of his bloody knuckles, but it matters not. Why should it matter if he injures himself, considering he’ll be dead in a few days? He knows his fate is inevitable, but if he could only-

Someone’s at the door, he realizes. He listens to the sound of the keys and then the door’s mechanism opening and then-

“John!” he exclaims, standing up, immediately reaching for his friend who has just walked into the cell. The door closes after him ominously, but Sherlock barely notices, eyes glued to the man standing in front of him and who he thought he’d never see again.

His friend looks tired, as if he hasn’t slept in a lifetime, dark circles beneath his eyes. His clothes are ruffled and he hasn’t shaved in a few days. He looks, for all intents and purposes, as if he was the one sentenced to death.

As his eyes swept over John, eager to memorize every bit of him since he knows it’s likely this will be the last image he’ll get from his friend, he finally notices the little buddle he’s holding. His breath catches and he immediately extends his arms, reaching for his daughter who’s sleeping peacefully, sucking on her thumb. “Oh,” he murmurs, breathless, standing in front of John now but not yet daring to touch either of them. “She’s so beautiful.” It’s cliched, he knows, but it’s all he can think of.

John doesn’t say a word, passing him their daughter. Sherlock holds her carefully, a bit nervously since she’s just so _ tiny _ . He knew rationally she would be, since she was inside his body just a day ago but she seems so, so-

John seems content to watch him fuss over their daughter, choosing to lean against the wall still not saying a word. In any other circumstances, Sherlock might have been a little worried due the silence, but right now his whole attention is on memorizing his daughter, since-

Well.

She looks a lot like John, now that he thinks about it. That might have been a little hard to explain, but considering the current circumstances, it might not be that important. She looks healthy enough and while Sherlock has no real clue of the appropriate size of a newborn, he thinks she’s within parameters.

“Have you thought of a name?” John asks suddenly, startling Sherlock a bit. To be quite honest, he had almost forgotten they weren’t alone in the room, entirely too focused on his child.

He bites his lip, sitting on the small bed while he considers his answer. “In the abstract,” he replies and John arches an eyebrow questioningly. “I- I didn’t think I would actually use it, but I had thought maybe- maybe I’d name her after her father.”

John nods thoughtfully, expression otherwise blank and Sherlock looks down, not really wanting to watch John’s reaction when he confesses the truth. “I was thinking… although it’s terribly pedestrian… Joan. Or Johana, maybe? What do you think?”

John doesn’t answer and Sherlock refuses to look up. He had been expecting some exclamation of surprise, but his friend is utterly silent and Sherlock wonders if he caught the implication. He’s smart enough, surely-

“Were you going to tell me?” John asks after what feels like a lifetime, tone very quiet and defeated.

Ah, so he already knew. Who told him, then? Mycroft, Mary? Does it matter? “No,” he answers quietly.

“Why?” John questions, tone strained, holding back his anger.

“You chose her,” Sherlock replies, telling himself he’s not about to cry. Not now, not over this.

“Sherlock, if you had told me-”

“No!” Sherlock exclaims, frustrated because nobody seems to understand. Because everyone has told him John would have gone back to him in a heartbeat if he had he known about their baby and yet- “I didn’t want that,” he mutters dejectedly and suddenly John is kneeling in front of him, looking earnest.

“You didn’t want me?”

Sherlock laughs, because the question is just plain ridiculous. How can John not know? “Of course I wanted you,” he spits darkly, now growing angry. “It was you who didn’t want  _ me.  _ Not that I can blame you, of course. I’m nothing but a Freak.” John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock carries on undeterred, all his pain and anger coming through. “You left me. You didn’t chose me. So I-” he realizes his body has betrayed him and he’s crying, so he wipes his tears away furiously. “I kept her because she was all I had left from you. And I told myself- I told myself it would be enough. I didn’t want to interfere with your domestic bliss, after all.”

“Sherlock-”

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d want to do the  _ honorable thing,  _ but I- you loved Mary, John. It wasn’t right to interfere with your happiness and I wanted you to be happy. After all I did- after all I’ve done, I didn’t deserve-”

“Hush,” John whispers, cupping his face gently. “Don’t say that, don’t- I- Sherlock, I-” The words hang unsaid between them, as they always do and Sherlock sighs, pulling away.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he murmurs dejectedly, eyes fixed on his daughter. “Now you know. You- you’ll look after her, won’t you?”

John’s eyes are infinitely sad, but he nods. Sherlock closes his eyes, holding back his tears. “John, as I said before… your happiness is the most important thing in the world. Everything I I’ve done, I’ve done it with your happiness in mind. I know this isn’t- I’m sorry I messed up like this, but you need to promise me- no, John, listen to me- I need you to promise me you’ll be happy. That you’ll put this dark episode behind and you’ll be happy.  _ Promise me _ .”

There are tears in John’s eyes now too and their daughter makes a distressed sound, as if sensing their emotional turmoil. Sherlock hushes her, standing up and starting to pace in an effort to soothe her. John takes a seat on the bed, looking at them in silence, trying to compose himself.

There’s a knock on the door and the guard’s voice comes through, informing them the visit is over. John looks gutted, but Sherlock smiles, if a bit sadly, before pressing a kiss against his daughter’s forehead and passing her to John. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” John murmurs. “Oh, Sherlock, if only-” Another knock, the guard obviously getting impatient and John shakes his head. “I-” He hesitates, chewing on his lip viciously and Sherlock offers him a sad smile that conveys his understanding.

At this point, it might be better to leave some things unsaid.

“Goodbye John,” he says finally and his friend nods once before turning around and exiting the cell. Sherlock remains where he is, tears streaming freely down his cheeks before collapsing on the floor once more, crying in earnest.

He has just realized something.

John didn’t promise him anything.

 

* * *

 

Baker Street is devoid of any life, but then again, it’s very early in the morning and Mrs. Hudson must be still abed. The street is deserted too, not a single store open on January 1st.

John climbs the stairs slowly, feeling as if he hasn’t slept in a lifetime. Joan is asleep, the movement of the car having lulled her to sleep just a few minutes ago and so he’s fairly certain he’ll be able to lie down for a bit.

It doesn’t mean he’ll get any sleep though.

The flat is exactly as the last time John saw it, with the only exception of his chair, which has been pushed into a far corner. His heart constricts painfully in his chest, but he hurries to ignore it, focusing instead on fussing over his daughter. Placing her inside her crib is a much more complicated process than he expected, since she makes small noises of discomfort every time he tries to put her down.

He suspects he has a few difficult nights ahead of him.

He drops the small bag containing the few things Greg brought them earlier at the facility. The DI hadn’t really spoken to him, although it had been obvious he had been informed of what had happened, based on the look on his face. John can’t stand anyone’s pity right now though and so he had ignored him in favour of looking after Joan.

He listens to Mary rummaging around the kitchen and he wonders why is she here. He had tried to convince her to go home, but she had simply shaken her head and followed him into the car. John had wanted to argue, but he felt to tired to and so he had let the matter go.

He sits on Sherlock’s chair, covering his face with his hands, vaguely aware of the fact that he’s crying. He feels desperate and hopeless and he has no clue what he’s supposed to do now.

“John,” Mary murmurs gently, coming to kneel in front of him. “You need to go to sleep,” she says and John shakes his head furiously. Mary sighs, grabbing his hands and pulling them away from his face, so they’re staring at each other. “You need to rest.”

“I can’t,” he argues softly, “I just- I can’t.”

Mary smiles sadly, cupping his face gently between her hands and despite himself, John leans into the familiar touch. Deep down it feels  _ wrong,  _ but the truth is that he’s craving comfort and Mary’s presence is familiar if not completely reassuring.

He’s vaguely aware of Mary pressing closer, her lips brushing his for a couple of seconds and he considers his options. It’d be so easy to lose himself for a while in the comfort provided by someone familiar, to forget for a little while all the ways he’s hurting inside. But it feels wrong and unfair and it’s time he starts doing the right thing, even if it’s not the easiest thing to do.

Doing so would have saved them all from a lot of heartbreak, after all.

He places his hands of her shoulders, pushing her away lightly and Mary sighs once more, standing up. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, rubbing her temples. “I just- I think-” She bites her lip and John realizes, to his great horror, that there are tears in the corner of her eyes.

He just can’t handle this right now.

“You’re going to need a lot of help,” Mary says after while, apparently having gotten her emotions under control once more. “Raising a child it’s not easy and given the circumstances…” She waves a hand vaguely, gesturing around the room. “I think I’m going to stay for a year or so. Just to help.”

John blinks, not certain he’s understanding what she’s saying. Mary smiles bitterly, shaking her head. “I can’t stay John. I- I knew all along there wasn’t anything for me here although I- I know you tried. But I always knew you couldn’t love me as you love him and I should have let you go but I… I was too weak. And selfish. And I’m sorry for that.”

The words seem to pain her and it only adds to John’s guilt, but he knows she’s right. They never really belonged together, but they both cling to one another for ridiculous, selfish,  _ cruel  _ reasons.

“I’m sorry too,” John murmurs, squeezing her hand gently. “I should- there are far too many things I wish I had done differently.”

But what’s done is done.

And there’s no changing the past.

 

* * *

 

The meeting goes as well as it could have been expected. Mycroft knew he couldn’t get his brother’s his freedom, but he got him a chance. It’s a very unlikely he’ll survive, of course, but at least… it’s something, isn’t it?

“I thought you had quit,” a voice behind him says and Mycroft takes another deep drag of his cigarette, before putting it away. Gregory offers him a tight, pained smile and comes to stand right next to him in the small balcony. 

“I’m very stressed right now,” Mycroft justifies after a beat, staring down the street that’s just beginning to wake up. People usually sleep late on the New Year, but Mycroft has never known what it’s like to actually get the chance to lie in. 

The Inspector hums in acknowledgement, placing a hand on the small of his back in what Mycroft supposes is meant to be a comforting gesture. It is, but he hates the fact that he feels comforted: he has no right to feel any relief, not when he has failed his brother so spectacularly.

“So what now?” Gregory asks gently, concern showing in his tone and Mycroft sighs, shaking his head.

“There’s a slim chance Sherlock might make it back to London eventually. But…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, the thought to painful to entertain. Gregory squeezes his shoulder once and Mycroft wishes for an embrace, but he’s not about to ask for something so ridiculous right now.

He stares at the street once more, allowing his thoughts to wander.

He knows there’s nothing else he could have done, but the knowledge doesn’t ease his guilt at all.

 

* * *

 

His phone keeps ringing and Mycroft glares at it, annoyed, before finally picking it up. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he deadpans darkly, wondering what has happened now. He trusts his PA to handle any matter that might arise and not to bother him unless it’s a life or death matter, so-

“I’m sorry, sir,” Anthea apologises quickly. “But  _ she’s  _ calling.”

Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly. Exactly what he needs right now. “Put her on the line,” he says, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Hello, brother dear,” Eurus greets cheerfully, rattling on his nerves right away. His relationship with his sister has always been difficult, although neither of them is at fault for it: Mummy was the one who choose to stay with her husband, after all and sending Eurus away with her own father, never to see her again and going as far as to pretend she didn’t exist at all, something she of course had never quite forgotten or forgiven.

“Sister,” he greets politely, jaw clenched tight despite himself. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I rather think it’s the other way around,” the woman says, tone still cheerful. “A little birdie told me our dear  _ brother  _ run into a bit of trouble.” Mycroft hates the especial enfasis she puts on the word brother, yet another sore subject with her although he can’t quite understand why. “I think I can help.”

“How?” Mycroft demands, curious if wary. “And why?”

Eurus hums. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asks playfully. “I just want a very little thing in exchange.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, telling himself this is pure madness. Eurus is far too smart and she tends to run around with unsavory companions, so he’s fairly certain it’s not a good idea, but-

“What do you want?”

A giggle is his only answer.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t thought he would get another chance to see John Watson before embarking himself in a mission that was very likely going to end with his life and yet here they are, in the tarmac where the plane that will take him to his death is waiting for him, once again saying goodbye to each other.

He’s having a hard time trying to come up with the right words to say, though.

Instead he focuses on Joan, who has been placed in his arms for the last time. He thinks he ought to be feeling sad or something, but he mostly feels empty. These last few days have been filled with so many emotions that Sherlock seems to have run out of things to feel.

“John,” he says, looking up, well aware their time is running short. “I- There’s something I should have told you a long time ago, but never did and now I’m not sure if it’d be better to leave it unsaid.” He pauses, measuring his words and John just stares at him in silence, expression perfectly blank. “I told you several times during the course of our acquaintance that I didn’t care for relationships. My past experiences weren’t exactly… encouraging on that matter and so I had figured out I was better off on my own. Until I met you, I saw no reason to reconsider my views on them and the hassle they involve.”

He pauses once again, looking everywhere but at John, thinking he’ll lose his courage if he does. “By the time I was forced to leave, I had been thinking maybe I’d like to take a chance with you. But the thing is... I realized I cared too much about you, about what you might think and the way you might act. I couldn’t stand you treating me differently; it would have killed me to have you treating me differently and I-” Another pause as he takes a deep breath, willing his tears away. “It didn’t seem to matter by the time I came back. And I thought- I thought maybe it was better that way.”

He chances a look at John once more. His friend has closed his eyes, expression slightly pained. “I don’t think dwelling on what-ifs is of much use but I- I do wish I had been braver.”

John shakes his head, eyes closed, holding back tears of his own. “As you said, there’s no use on thinking of what ifs,” his friend murmurs softly, pulling him into an awkward hug considering Sherlock is still holding their daughter. “But we both been such fools,” he agrees quietly.

They remain holding one another for a few moments, Sherlock allowing himself to bask in the warmth of the embrace, trying to memorize how it feels. He knows he’s going to need that memory in the months to come, even if-

“I know the odds of you coming back are very  _ very  _ low,” John murmurs against his neck, breath warmth and Sherlock shivers a bit. “But you’ve always defied the odds. And if there’s the slightest chance-” He pulls away a little, just so he can gaze directly into Sherlock’s eyes. “Promise me you’ll come back to me. To us.”

Sherlock bits his lip, but nods. The odds aren’t in his favour, but they weren’t either when he left to dismantle Moriarty’s network. Things might be a bit more complicated this time around, since he’ll be completely on his own but- “I’ll try,” he promises earnestly and John nods tightly, finally pulling away from the embrace.

Sherlock nods to himself, figuring there’s nothing left to say. He looks down at their daughter once more, pressing one last kiss against her forehead and Joan peers at him through half lidded eyes. His heart skips a beat as he passes her to John, thinking he might never see her again.

He realizes his daughter has taken a hold of his scarf and now refuses to let go. Sherlock closes his eyes, telling himself he’s not about to cry again, but one look at John’s face and all his resolve crumbles. They both stare at their daughter for a beat, before Sherlock takes off his scarf and lets Joan take it with her.

“I’ll look after her,” John promises quietly, smile sad and pained. “But Sherlock- please come back to us.”

Sherlock nods.

It’s a difficult promise to keep.

But he’ll try his very best.

 

* * *

 

John watches the plane take off, heart breaking into a million pieces. He realizes he had been clinging to some silly hope of something happening in the last minute that would stop Sherlock’s damned flight.

But it seems luck won’t intervene this time.

After all, miracles happen once in a lifetime and getting a second chance should be more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And… the end!  
> Just kidding, of course! I’m nowhere near cruel enough for that and after the hell I’ve put our boys through… well, it wouldn’t be fair. Besides, for me, the point of writing fanfic is to get the happy ending canon refused to give us :P  
> That being said, I hope you liked this chapter! It had sketched a couple more of heartbreaking scenes inside my head, but then I figured I was probably pushing it. There’s only so much angst one can read/write ;)  
> Also, I should probably warn you that the Eurus bit might be left a bit unresolved… but well, someday I might make a rewrite of S4 in this verse and then we’ll see more of that. In the meantime… well.  
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! Thanks for reading and pretty please let me know what you thought?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! The last chapter of this particular tale! I’m super worried about characterization and plot consistency, but well… I do like it very much ;)  
> So, without further ado, enjoy!

Being sober is so much more difficult than what people realize.

But then, if you had never been an addict, it’s nearly impossible to imagine how it’s like to go through every minute of your life, feeling a craving for your drug of choice, so intense that it can actually be equaled to thirst or hunger. You might be able to ignore it for a while and you might get distracted, but the slightest slip…

Well.

Sherlock contemplates his options as the plane takes off, a syringe ready at hand. He wonders how exactly did it end up inside his coat pocket, but he supposes it really matters not. It’s here now and the temptation is strong.

He looks outside the window, where John’s figure is becoming increasingly small as the plane leaves the tarmac. He looks at the syringe once more, thinking there’s not a single reason not to take this unexpected _gift._ He’s a dead man, anyway, so what’s one last indulgence before heading to his death?

_Promise me you’ll come back to me. To us._

He did promise, of course, but the odds are… the odds are definitely not on his favour. And in any case, it’s not like John will know about this: if by some miracle he does make it back to his beloved, he’ll be sober once again.

He sighs, dropping the syringe and hurrying to step over it, making sure to break it. He has always made up excuses like this: no one will know, he has it under control, he can stop whenever he wants. But he knows they’re all lies and he’s tired of lying to himself.

He leans back on the comfortable seat, wondering just how many strings Mycroft pulled to make sure his last trip would be comfortable. He’s beginning to wish he had had time to say goodbye to his brother, but between talking to Mycroft and talking to John one last time… well, it really wasn’t a competition.

He takes out his phone, thinking he’ll entertain himself with browsing through John’s old blog posts. It’s likely he won’t have internet connection very soon (in fact, it’s almost certain his phone will completely stop working in a bit) and so-

But then the phone starts ringing and he frowns, staring at his brother’s name on the screen. His heart skips a bit, hope surging despite his best efforts to rationalize with himself this doesn’t need to mean anything.

It seems his luck hasn’t quite run out; or maybe it has, depending on how you see it.

After all, Moriarty’s sudden reappearance can’t be a good thing, right?

 

* * *

 

_Two months later._

 

“Can you believe this?” John demands, slamming the tabloid against the kitchen table with a little too much strength. Sherlock hums, continuing making breakfast for himself. He thought he was past the pregnancy constant cravings but they seem to get worse with each passing day nursing his daughter.

“I mean, it’s not- people would talk, of course, that’s to be expected but this… I thought Mycroft said he’d make sure it was handled with perfect secrecy?” John continues, gesturing widely, obviously not bothered by Sherlock’s silence. “I just- I don’t want of bunch of so called reporters standing outside the courthouse waiting to get a pic of us.”

Sherlock hums once more, chewing on his food thoughtfully. “We could always try a disguise,” he offers, smiling at the thought. He’s always enjoyed dressing up, even when he’s not working on a case. It can be quite fun to pretend to be someone else, although given the circumstances-

“Aren’t you bothered by this?” John asks, gesturing towards the tabloid and Sherlock shrugs non committedly.

“The papers have been speculating about our relationship for years, John. Then I end up pregnant and you move back here after a while. Honestly,  I’m surprised it took them this long to find out about the divorce.”

John flinches, but doesn’t comment. Sherlock smiles ruefully; he’s not pleased with people speculating about his love life behind his back, but then he has never particularly cared about what people might think.

He thinks the problem with the tabloids particular handling of their relationship is the fact that not even John or Sherlock know for sure what their relationship is. The minute Sherlock had gotten off the plane, John had swept him off his feet and kissed him breathless, but afterwards-

Well.

Before either of them can add anything, a cry coming from the living room distracts them. Sherlock sighs, eying his half eaten eggs regretfully and starts heading towards his daughter’s crib, but John stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder gently. “I’ve got this. You finish your breakfast,” he says, before going to pick Joan up and Sherlock smiles as he watches the man he loves interacting with their daughter.

It’s not quite the life he dared to fantasize with when the plane had turned back but-

It’s good enough.

 

* * *

 

A part of him had been a bit confused by John’s decision of moving back to Baker Street. After all, all of Sherlock’s crazy efforts to keep Mary’s secret had been to ensure they both would be happy together. He had thought that without the threat of Mary’s past coming to light again, John and Mary would-

But it seems he was quite mistaken. And while he had been dreaming of John coming back to live with him in Baker Street, he had thought it was a baseless hope. Of course now John actually knew Sherlock loved him and he knew Joan was his, but-

Well. He honestly hadn’t expected things to turn this way. At best, he had thought John would drop by often enough to visit their daughter, but he hadn’t quite imagined him being this involved in Joan’s life.

He continues pacing in front of the window, attempting to get Joan to sleep. Mary is picking them up for their trip to the courthouse and Sherlock had wanted to leave Joan with Mrs. Hudson, since it’s very likely there’ll be a hoard of paparazzis just waiting to take their picture. As he told John, he’s not surprised by the turn of events, but he’s certainly not happy about it.

Joan, however, seems pretty dead set on not going to sleep.

He wonders if she takes that after himself.

He watches Mary parking in front of Speedy’s. She doesn’t get out of the car, probably just wanting to get this over with and Sherlock sighs, looking down at Joan who’s peering at him curiously. “Fine,” he mutters, going to grab his coat. “You can come. But when the noisy reporters surround us… well, I warned you.” In lieu of a response, Joan smiles at him and Sherlock can’t help smiling back. “John, Mary is here!” he calls, not taking his eyes off his daughter.

“Right,” John says, appearing out of nowhere. “I…” he hesitates, biting his lip softly and Sherlock frowns. “I… You don’t have to come.”

Sherlock stares at him for a beat, tilting his head to the side a little. “Don’t you want me to come?”

“I…” John hesitates once more, evidently torn over something. “It’s likely we’ll run into some paparazzis and so I was thinking maybe...” He gestures vaguely, not knowing how to finish that phrase.

There’s really no point on Sherlock joining John and Mary to sign their divorce papers (it’s probably a bit weird, actually), but right until this moment, it hadn’t honestly occurred him he could stay home.

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees, unsure of why it feels so important to go with John. “I’ll- I’ll wait here.”

John nods tightly, looking unconvinced and Sherlock frowns. John leans to press a quick kiss against Joan’s forehead and then he’s out of the flat, closing the front door with a little more strength than strictly necessary.

Sherlock moves back to the window, watching John go and if his chest feels a little bit tight as he watches the car drive away-

Well, surely there’s no need to read anything into that.

 

* * *

 

There’s a soft knock on the door, but it sounds very far. Sherlock blinks awake, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He has no memory of having fallen asleep, but in all truthness that’s not a strange occurrence. Looking after a newborn is much more tiring than he ever thought and it seems he’s constantly tired enough to fall asleep the minute he sits down.

Another knock and he grunts in acknowledgment, barely managing to keep his eyes open. The door opens and John slips in, bringing their daughter with him. Sherlock peers at the small clock on the bedside and he sighs.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs, passing Joan to him. “I tried to get her back to sleep after changing her, but I think she’s hungry. Again.”

Sherlock hums. “Takes after her uncle,” he murmurs, lifting his shirt and arranging his daughter so she can nurse. “Keep up like that and you’ll be as round as him,” he chides playfully, but Joan isn’t paying attention, already nursing happily.

John chuckles, standing by the bed awkwardly. Sherlock rolls his eyes, rearranging himself so John can sit at his feet. His friend offers him a hesitant smile before taking a seat, looking around the room distractedly in an effort to not look directly at Sherlock feeding their daughter.

Which is all kind of ridiculous. “John, you’ve seen me in various states of undress. Do you really think I’d feel self concious about you seeing me feeding Joan?”

The other man sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I just… we haven’t really discussed where we’re standing and I don’t want to make this… _weird._ ”

Well, that’s one way to call it.

Sherlock sighs, leaning back against the cushions in an attempt of getting more comfortable. By experience he knows this can take quite a bit and more often than not, his back ends up aching after a feeding session.

He and John sit in silence, surveying each other and attempting to look like they’re not doing that. Sherlock shifts a bit, feeling uncertain. As John said, they haven’t really discussed where are they standing and after John’s earlier trip to the courthouse…

“So, how did it go?” he asks, figuring he might as well say something. They’ve hurt each other a lot by keeping quiet and he thinks it’s high time they start actually _talking_ to each other.

“There were quite a lot of so-called reporters,” John says after a while, as if he’s seriously considering his every word, afraid of saying the wrong thing. “It was uncomfortable. Got asked a lot of questions that… well, you can imagine.” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Mary was- she seemed fine until the very end, when she snapped at a reporter. I’m still not sure if it was an honest reaction or if she was pretending; I never-” He stops himself, sighing once more. “It doesn’t matter. The point is we signed the papers. And she said- she mentioned Mycroft offered to put her in contact with some foreign agency.”

Sherlock huffs. “My brother needs to learn not to meddle in my business.”

John shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. And it might be for the best. I don’t-” he interrupts himself once more, biting his lip. “It’s for the best.”

Sherlock wonders what his friend isn’t saying. “So, that’s it?”

“It seems so,” John agrees softly, one hand now resting over Sherlock’s knee and drawing circles over it, although Sherlock doubts the other has noticed.

For a while, they simply continue sitting in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it’s obvious there’s much left unsaid. “John, I- I think it might be time for us to talk. Really talk, I mean.”

John nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps. I was…” He huffs, annoyed with himself. “I don’t know what I was waiting for.”

Neither does Sherlock, but it doesn’t matter any longer. They continue staring at each other in silence, both unsure of what they want to say and then John chuckles nervously. “We’re really bad at this,” he says, earning himself an amused huff from Sherlock. “But we need to start working on it. If this is going to work… we need to start talking.”

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “What’s _this_ , exactly?” he asks, not quite meeting John’s eyes and his friend offers him a small self depreciating smile.

“What do you want it to be, Sherlock?”

The younger man considers this for a while, eyes fixed on Joan now. Her eyelids are drooping and she’ll fall asleep soon enough, so he figures it’s time to switch sides. “I don’t know,” he answers slowly, once he has rearranged his daughter. “I- I told you before my past sexual experiences weren’t exactly… _positive_ , so I don’t think… I’m not sure I want that.”

“That’s fine,” John assures him, probably sensing how nervous the subject is making Sherlock. “But do you… do you want us to try a romantic relationship? Or do you wish we simply remain friends?”

Sherlock considers this for a bit. “I- I’m not sure if we can have a romantic relationship without sex being a expectation.”

“Of course that’s- how can you-” John is angry, it’s easy to tell by the way his tone has raised and his wild gesturing, but Sherlock isn’t exactly sure why he’s so upset. “I mean,” John says, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “It’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to have sex, Sherlock. It’s not- it shouldn’t be an expectation in any relationship.”

Sherlock frowns. “You like sex. In all your previous relationships I noticed-”

“Yes, I do. But it doesn’t mean I can’t go without it,” John says, interrupting him while blushing furiously. “I don’t…” He bites his lip, unsure of what to say. “What I meant is, I want to be with you. And if you don’t… if sex is something you don’t want, then that’s fine.”

Sherlock frowns, still unconvinced. “But you do want to have a romantic relationship. With me.” John nods and Sherlock’s frown deepens. “What if I don’t want that? What if… what if I’d be more comfortable just remaining friends?”

It’s not what he wants, certainly, but it seems safer than agreeing to an actual relationship just to find out John is exactly as all the others before. He doesn’t think he could stomach that and while it might be unfair to be thinking of John like that, he has no guarantee he won’t start acting different towards him if they become something else.

“Then that’s fine too,” John says, although he looks pained and Sherlock nods, looking down at Joan once more.

“But if we’re just friends,” Sherlock says, forcing himself to voice his darkest fear. “Will you start… _dating_ once more?” John stares at him, looking puzzled and Sherlock hurries to finish his thought. “It’s just… you might meet someone else. And I don’t… I don’t want to lose you again. I can’t lose you again.”

John looks pained now and he stands up, coming to sit right next to Sherlock, putting an arm around him and embracing him the best he can considering Sherlock still has their daughter in his arms. “I don’t think I can. I mean, I… I love you, Sherlock. And nothing’s going to change that, so no, I wouldn’t start dating again. I can’t- I can’t be with someone else now that I’ve admitted to myself you’ll always have my heart.”

Sherlock realizes he’s crying and allows himself to be comforted by John’s warmth next to him. “I do- I think I’d like to give it a try,” he murmurs finally, nuzzling the underside of John’s jaw the best he can. “But John I… I’m not sure how to go about it.”

His friend chuckles, pressing a quick kiss against the top of his head. “We’ll figure it out, love. We’ll figure it out together.”

That does sound nice.

 

* * *

 

“Do you… ummm… would you like to come back once you’ve put Joan back in her crib?”

John stares at Sherlock for a beat, trying to decipher what might be going through his mind. His friend does look nervous, but not in a bad way and so he supposes it might not be a bad idea. After all, despite the familiarity, his bedroom upstairs seems awfully… empty.

He nods, exiting the room gingerly. He puts Joan in her crib and makes sure she’s deeply asleep before turning around and entering Sherlock’s bedroom once more. His friend is still sitting, propped up by the sea of cushions and he smiles coyly at him, evidently nervous but willing.

John approaches the bed slowly, uncertain of what happens now. Just a few minutes ago they agreed they wanted to pursue a romantic relationship, but they haven’t quite discussed what that might involve. He sits right next to Sherlock at the bed’s edge and slowly leans down, giving Sherlock all the time in the world to push him away if he so wishes.

Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be what Sherlock wants.

Their lips meet hesitantly, just a brief brush at first and growing bolder as the minutes pass. John presses Sherlock against the pillows, coming to straddle him so they can keep kissing while on a more comfortable position.

All of John’s fantasies have nothing on the real thing.

Nor do his memories, to be honest, hazy as they are. Sherlock’s lips are soft and pliant beneath his and John smiles into the kiss, murmuring sweet endearments against his friend's lips, careful to keep his hands from wandering, despite how much he wants to touch every inch of the other man.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs suddenly, pushing him off very gently, almost unwillingly. “I think- I think that’s quite enough for now.”

John hurries to pull away, despite his by now very urgent arousal. He promised himself that if Sherlock decided he did want to be with him, he’d let him set whatever pace he’s comfortable with and just because they have already slept together once, he’s not about to press for something his friend isn’t ready to give (or maybe doesn’t even want.)

Sherlock watches him in silence, breathing heavily. It’s evident he wasn’t actually expecting him to stop and John’s heart aches for him, thinking of all those other people Sherlock had dated in the past. He’s determined to prove to his friend that he does love him and that he’s willing to let Sherlock set the pace.

“I-” his friend starts after a while, now toying with the hem of his shirt and John tries not to get distracted by the expanse of creamy skin now visible. It’s somehow different seeing Sherlock like this, in this particular context, despite the hundred times he has seen his friend in other states of undress. “I told you before I don’t…” he bites his lip, unsure and John frowns, growing worried. “I might have the body parts you usually prefer, but I’m not a woman, John. I don’t- I want to be very clear about that.”

John nods, wondering if he has done something to make Sherlock uncomfortable. He can’t think of something, but- “I know,” he says, gently caressing Sherlock’s cheek, startling him a bit. “I’m not quite sure… did I do something wrong?”

“No. Not yet,” Sherlock murmurs, biting his lip. “I don’t think I can’t quite explain it but I just… I just don’t want you to treat me differently, afterwards. I know last time… but then we were pretty drunk last time, so…” He looks away, chewing on his lip viciously now, hard enough to draw blood. “I just wanted to make that clear.”

John nods seriously, leaning in for a quick peck on Sherlock’s lips. “I’m going to need you to show me what exactly do you like and what you don’t want me to do. In bed, I mean, because outside- nothing’s going to change, Sherlock, I swear. You’re still the same man I’m madly in love with.”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh, not quite certain he believes him but wanting desperately to. “Alright. Back to kissing, then.”

John chuckles and then kisses him again.

It’s not going to be easy, he knows, but he’s going to do his best to make it work.

It’s definitely worth it.

 

* * *

 

Their domestic life isn’t idyllic, but it’s close enough to perfect. They argue and they bicker and Sherlock continues leaving body parts on places where there shouldn’t be body parts and they’re generally happy together.

All in all, Sherlock thinks their new arrangement is working well enough.

He and John haven’t done anything other than kissing after their late night conversation following John’s divorce, but things are good between them. In all truthness, being in a romantic relationship with John doesn’t seem to have changed things between them outside the bedroom and that’s, Sherlock thinks, all he could have wanted.

“It’s weird, don’t you think?” John muses out loud, while Sherlock is busy finishing an experiment, hoping against hope Joan won’t wake up right now. He adores her, really, but she has very bad timing when it comes to Sherlock’s experiments.

“Huh?” he asks, not really paying attention, sparing a quick glance at his watch. Any minute now-

“Moriarty,” John says, making Sherlock’s attention snap immediately back to him. “I mean- after his little _stunt,_ there hasn’t been any further signs of him actually being alive. It’s all… I’m not complaining, of course, but the timing is… it’s _weird,_ isn’t it?

To be honest, Sherlock hadn’t actually thought about it. Distracted as he’s been by his messy feelings for John, not to mention looking after Joan, he hadn’t actually spared one second to think about the man he saw shot himself on that fatidic day at Bart’s and that yet, despite all odds, is somehow still alive.

Before he can answer though, a cry coming from the living room informs him his daughter is awake and, most likely, hungry.

John sighs, eying the mess on the table and Sherlock smiles sheepishly. “You go, I’ll clean this up,” John says, sounding like he’d much rather not have to clean after Sherlock’s mess.

The consulting detective goes to pick up his daughter, murmuring soothing nonsense as he carries her towards his usual chair, all the while thinking about John’s words.

It _is_ quite weird.

 

* * *

 

“What exactly are you accusing me of?” Mycroft asks, toying with a pen and so giving himself away: he is indeed somehow involved with Moriarty’s timely reappearance.

“What did you do?” Sherlock demands, attempting to look intimidating, but that’s hard to do when you’re holding an adorable baby in your arms.

“Nothing,” Mycroft answers, sounding honest and Sherlock frowns. “I had nothing to do with Moriarty’s reappearance.” Yes, the statement is true, but there’s something his brother isn’t telling him and Sherlock doesn’t like it one bit. “Try not to worry just yet, brother dear. In time, I’m sure we’ll get the answers we need.”

“I’d like to be prepared for what might come.”

Mycroft smiles tightly. “You and me both, brother dear. But I’m afraid I don’t have any answers for you on this particular subject and anyway… you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, do you?”

Sherlock huffs.

No, he supposes you don’t.

 

* * *

 

It’s a cold morning and while there a few travelers sitting around, waiting for their flight, the particular door where they’re waiting is fairly empty. Mary looks around, surveying her surroundings carefully, looking for anything that might seem amiss, but nothing grabs her attention. There are a couple of agents standing guard, pretending to be tourists of course, but other than that, everything is perfectly calm.

She turns her attention back to John and Sherlock, who are standing in front of her. The first one is looking around awkwardly, working up his nerve to tell her something and Mary smiles fondly, thinking she’s definitely going to miss him. She feels a pang of longing somewhere inside her, but she quickly shakes it away.

How does the saying goes? Ah, yes: if you love someone, you have to let them go.

Funny how many things this seemingly ordinary man can make her feel and yet, she supposes John Watson is not ordinary at all: he can make his way into any heart, no matter how many barriers and defenses are around it.

She smiles at Sherlock, who looks a tad nervous. It’s evident he’s not quite sure what is he supposed to be doing or if he’s supposed to say anything at all: in all truth, there’s no actual love lost between him and Mary, although she supposes they have a certain… understanding of each other. She also thinks he might pity her, just a little and while unpleasant, the notion doesn’t anger her as it would coming from anyone else.

**_Passengers traveling towards Madrid, please board through gate 13._ **

Mary grabs her small traveling bag and offers her companions a last smile. “Well then. I guess this is the goodbye,” she says, aiming to keep her tone light but not quite succeeding. She’s sad and she thinks she might allow herself to shed a couple of tears, but that’ll be later. Right now she doesn’t want to give either man further reason to pity her.

“Mary,” John begins and then bites his lip, unsure of what he wants to say. Mary smiles encouragingly, her grip on her bag tightening. “I- We’re both at fault for things not working between us but I- I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Mary huffs, a tad amused. “It would have never worked. But I- I’m sorry too.” She turns to Sherlock, hesitant. “I do wish you had consulted me before rushing into a senseless, suicidal mission, but I’m thankful for everything you did, Sherlock. I hope you understand that while I might not like you very much… it’s nothing personal.”

Sherlock smiles, a bit sadly perhaps. “Have a nice trip, Mary.”

She nods, turning around before she says something horribly sentimental. After the whole Magnussen incident, she warmed up a bit to Sherlock, but in all truth, she’s happy with the thought of never seeing him again. Not so happy about losing John too, but well-

You don’t always get what you want.

She looks over her shoulder at the happy couple that has already gotten lost in their private world and she bites her lip. She once thought she would never want a _regular_ life but then she changed her mind. She wonders if she can have it or if she’s better off getting back to what she actually knows how to do.

Well, she supposes time will tell.

 

* * *

 

It turns out sharing a bed is quite a pleasant experience.

Of course last time they did this, both had been too drunk to really bask into the experience and while after their talk about their relationship and what they wanted there had been a lot of kissing and holding one another, they actually hadn’t sleep together, not even in the purest sense of the word, but tonight-

Tonight they had finished working on the first case they had taken since Joan was born and while they both were tired, they were giddy with adrenaline and not quite ready to let the other go, so they had stumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom, where sleep had eventually sneak upon them and so they had fallen asleep in each other's’ arms.

Now, in the dim light of the early morning, Sherlock allows himself to bask in the warmth from his companion and love of his life. He knows he should probably go to pick Joan up at Mrs. Hudson’s, since he knows his little girl doesn’t really sleep much and it’d only be polite to do so but-

Right now he can’t bring himself to move.

John tightens his arms around him unconsciously and Sherlock hums, curling closer to him. He had wanted this for so long and he had never actually thought he would get and now he can’t help wondering if it’s all a pleasant dream and so fearing he’ll wake up any minute now.

But then John opens his eyes, sleepy still, and offers him a bright, loving smile and Sherlock can’t help smiling back.

It’s not a dream, he realizes.

Which of course just makes the whole thing better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end! For real, this time! :P  
> Thoughts anyone? I’m happy with the end result, but I keep wondering if it all makes sense. I wanted to wrap things up the best I could and leave as few loose ends at possible, but I’m not sure if I managed. Did I forget anything important?  
> Please let me know what you thought! As usual, it’s been a joy to get to share this little tale with you: I had a lot of fun despite how angsty the story sometimes became (maybe perhaps exactly because of that. I do enjoy angst way too much) I hope it was enjoyable overall and that I didn’t mess up horribly! (let me know if I did!)  
> Thanks for reading, for all the comments, the kudos and the bookmarks! You guys are the best and I can not tell you how happy your support made me!  
> I have… 4? WIPs right now, I think, although only 2 that I update often enough, but that should change now that I’m done with this plot bunny, unless another one attacks me ;) If you’d like to read my other works… well, please do! ;)  
> Again, thanks for reading!!  
> And please let me know what you thought!
> 
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out! Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!  
>  
> 
>  


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